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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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BERRY 


























































BERRY’S TRIUMPH 

Ube Storg of a ©eotgta Ctacftec 



GEO. G. SMITH 

North Georgia Conf. 

AUTHOR OF “ HARRY THORNTON,” ETC. 




a 




^CON, GA. 

JOHN W. BURKE & CO. 
1888 




Copyright, 1888, by 

JOHN W. BURKE & CO. 


TROW'g 

PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPAFfTi 
NEW YORK. 


TO 

My Old Comeade in Arms, 

MAJOR y. IZZARD MIDDLETON. 

Baltimore, Md. 

Dear Major : You, the son of a South Carolina 
rice planter, and one of the old Middleton stock, 
never saw a real Georgia Cracker; and you, a na¬ 
tive born Churchman, as you would be apt to 
call yourself, never knew much of a genuine 
Methodist; so, in remembrance of days gone by, 
and of many tender acts of personal kindness 
from you, allow me to present my Methodist 
Cracker boy to you. 

As of old. 


Geo. G. Smith. 


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^ • * 


PEEFACE. 


Of all misread—misrepresented—misunder¬ 
stood people, the Georgia Cracker is the most so. 
By the Georgia Cracker is generally meant that 
Georgian who wears homespun, speaks in a pro¬ 
vincial dialect, and who is entirely ignorant of the 
conventional rules of etiquette. By people abroad 
he is called pityingly, the poor whiter degraded to 
his present lowly condition by the proud slave 
owner. Nor have our Georgia authors been in¬ 
nocent of this work of misrepresenting him. 
They have seen only one side of his character, and 
have made as absurd mistakes in picturing him as 
Mr. Cable in his picture of Parson Jones. I have 
had much to do with the people called Crackers, 
and I have had some little to do with those who 
ridicule them, and I avow my belief that a nobler, 
truer, purer, braver, better type of manhood has 



8 


PREFACE. 


never been found than is found among the 
rural people of the old State of Georgia. “ How 
Berry Won ” is a true story, as true as “ Harry 
Thornton,” and yet it is neither history nor biog¬ 
raphy. There have been a thousand “Berrys,” as 
there were a thousand Harrys. I like boys ; I 
like these, my boys ; they have become very real 
to me, and I trust will appear such to my readers. 
The names introduced are those of real charac¬ 
ters, and the story is as real as those in the his¬ 
torical stories of Sir Walter. 

The view of Georgia life as it was is, I think, 
accurately given. My main object in writing the 
book has been to do good, especially to boys. 
The story is, if I may so express it, a true fiction. 
That it is a Methodist story I do not deny, but 
only one in so far as it presents a picture of 
Methodist people and their usages in an early 
day. 

Geo. G. Smith. 


ViNKVILtI, NEAB 
Macon, Ga. 


CONTENTS. 




CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

The Overseer’s Death,'.11 

CHAPTER II. 

The Burial,.18 

CHAPTER III. 

The Widow’s Cry, . ~.. 23 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Widow’s Plans,.30 

CHAPTER V. 

They Look Around, ..39 

CHAPTER VI. 

Mingo,.. . 61 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Turkey Hunt and what Came of it, . *. . . 63 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Quarterly Meeting in the Old Times,.68 

CHAPTER IX. 


The Love-feast, the Sermon, and Berry’s Triumph, 77 










10 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER X. 

PAGE 

The School,.91 

CHAPTER XI. 

The New Teacher and the New Life,.112 

CHAPTER XII. 

A Boy’s Chapter about Hunting,.119 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Bright Days,.... . 125 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Berry’s Trip to Augusta,.132 

CHAPTER XV. 

In which we see an Old Time Camp-Meeting, . . 140 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Berry Goes Coon-hunting,. 155 

CHAPTER XVII. 

The Widow Wood enters the Slave Market and 

Buys a Slave,.162 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

The Widow Wood hears some Unexpected News, 167 
CHAPTER XIX. 

Berry Goes to School and Makes up for Lost Time, 176 
CHAPTER XX. 


Conclusion, 


183 










BERRY’S TRIUMPH, 


CHAPTER I. 

THE OVERSEER’S DEATH. 

doctor looked grave, as he felt 
e sick man’s pulse, and said : 
“How do you feel this morning. 


“ I am a great deal better, thank the Lord. I 
suffered powerful till about ten o’clock last night, 
when my misery begun to go off; I am mighty 
powerful weak, but I hain’t sufferin’ none to-day.” 

The doctor looked tenderly in the face of his 
patient and said : 

“ Dick, you are a brave man, and a good one, 
and you must prepare for startling news. You 









12 


BERRY^S TRIUMPH. 


are not better, you are dying ; mortification has 
come on and you must go.” 

The dying man looked into his friend’s face 
for a moment and calmly said : 

“Dock, twenty year ago, I made my peace 
with God. He has bin mighty good to me ; I 
hain’t afeard to go to him. Have you sed any¬ 
thing to Mary yit? ” 

The doctor shook his head. 

“ Well, leave me a little while to myself, and 
you go and tell Mary; tell her as easy as you 
kin. Dock.” 

The doctor left the room. 

A woman of about thirty-five years old, with 
two little children following her and a stout lad 
of twelve years old walking by her side carry¬ 
ing the milk bucket, was coming to the house. 
There was a smile on the rather homely, but 
gentle, face of the overseer’s wife, as she saw the 
doctor. 

“Dick is better to-day, hain’t he. Doctor?” 

He made no reply, but a shadow crossed the 
wife’s face as she looked into his eyes. 


THE OVERSEER'S DEATH, 


13 


“ Sister Wood, I am sorry to say Dick is no 
better. He is dangerously sick. Send the chil¬ 
dren to the kitchen, I want to talk to you,” he 
said in a soft voice. 

“ Asbury,” said the mother, “ take the young 
’uns with you to the kitchen, and keep ’em thar 
till I call you.” 

“Yes, mammy, I will ; but is any thing the 
matter with pap ? ” 

“ Never mind, son. I’ll send for you torectly.” 

“Sister Wood,” said the doctor, “mortifica¬ 
tion has come on, and Dick will die. May God 
pity you, and he will.” 

She had reached the back porch of the cabin, 
and sunk into a chair, and buried her face in 
her apron ; then, rising quickly, she said, “ Let 
me see him, I must be with him every minit.” 

“Mary,” said the doctor, gently, “you must 
calm yourself for his sake.” 

“I’ll try. Doctor. O Lord, help me!” 

The sick man saw her enter, and a loving 
smile covered his face as he extended his arms, 
and she laid her neck in their embrace. 


14 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


“Mary, you know all. Dock says I’ll die in a 
little while, and Jesus says I’ll be with him in 
glory, when I do.” 

“ Oh, Dick, how can I give you up ? ” 

“ My precious girl, for these twenty year you 
have been all my love and joy. You tuk me a 
wild, bad chap, and led me to Jesus ; he’s not a 
gwine ter take me away and leave you alone, 
you know that.” 

“ Yes, yes, I know him.” 

“ Tell the children to come in, and send Bill 
for Brother Marks.” 

Brother Marks was the owner of the planta¬ 
tion Richard Wood was overseeing, and lived a 
mile away. 

Bill met Brother Marks at the end of the 
lane, coming to see the sick man, and in a few 
moments he was at the overseer’s bedside. 

Dick put out his hand and said, gently: 

“Dock says it is all over with me. Brother 
Marks, and I wanted to see you before I left. I 
want you to sing for me, and pray for me ; sing 
‘How firm a foundation,* and jine us in prayer.** 


THE 0 VERSE EH S DEATH 


15 


Brother Marks was a fine singer, and he sang 
the old song, and kneeling prayed : 

“ Heavenly Father, thou art always good and 
wise, and lovest us all. This is thy child, thou 
art calling him home, and we thy children come 
to thee for him. Bless him. Lord ; give him to 
know that for time and eternity it is aU well. 
Take his poor wife, his sweet children into thy 
hands, and keep them. Lord. May they never 
want for friends, may they never doubt thee.- 
Oh, blessed Jesus, thy blood redeemed him, thy 
spirit moved him, keep him to the end.” 

Thus he prayed, his lips faltered, his tears 
came freely and he felt the Saviour near. 

A light shone on the face of the good over¬ 
seer. Old Bill and Nancy the cook had come in, 
and responded fervently to old Master’s prayer, 
the sobbing wife rose from her knees, with a 
look of tender love, and unchanging trust on 
her tearful face. Little Berry came in, with his 
brother and sister, and sobbed aloud. 

The doctor’s eyes were wet with tears. He 
drew near the dying man. “ You had best say. 


16 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


my friend, what you want us to hear, for you 
will pass without a pang, in a moment, and 
before long.” 

The overseer was calm, for he had the witness 
in himself. 

“ Brother Marks,” he said, “ I hain’t got much 
to say. I have mighty little to leave behind me, 
you know. Give Mary a home this year, pay her 
what you owe me, and take my boy under your 
care. I know Mary has good sense, and I know 
she will do all she kin, and I know God ain’t 
gwine to leave her.” 

“ No, my brother,” said his great-hearted 
friend, “ she’ll never suffer; God will see to 
that; and as long as John Marks has an ear of 
com, or a grain of wheat, Mary Wood shan’t 
want. You can rest on that.” 

“ Thank God, now I can die easy. Tell Berry 
to come and see his pappy die.” 

The boy came sobbing to the bedside, and the 
father said to him : 

“ Berry, your pappy is a-dying. He’s gwine 
to glory, and you are to keep your mammy, and 


TEE 0VERSEEW8 DEATH. 


17 


your little bruddy and sister. Berry, allers be 
honest, never tell a lie, don’t be ashamed to be 
poor, seek the Lord, and God will take care of 
you all; now, boy, promise to meet me in glory.” 

I will; oh, pap, I will! I will be good to 
mammy, and I’ll never do a mean thing and 
never tell a lie.” 

‘‘ God bless you, my boy. Now, Mary, take 
my head on your breast, and let me die in full 
sight of Heaven. Oh, I am so happy. Brother 
Marks, sing ‘ How happy every child of grace." 
Tell Brother Tapley to preach my funeral from 
my favorite text, ‘ God so loved the world, that 
he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever 
believeth in him should not perish, but have 
everlasting life.’ ” 

The voice grew fainter; the tide ebbed now 
rapidly, and in an hour the good overseer was 
dead. 


Z 


CHAPTER IL 


THE BURIAL. 

those days gentle hands made the 
shroud which wrapped the form of 
a dead neighbor, and good Sister 
Marks and Sister Tait and Sister 
Meriwether came to comfort the mourner, and 
make the shroud; while Bill, the driver, went to 
carry to David Meriwether’s the note from 
Brother Marks, and procure what was needed. 
The note read thus : 

“ Brotheb Meriwether : 

‘‘Dick Wood died this morning mighty happy. 
Send by Tom the stuff for his shroud, and I’ll 
see you paid. 

“John Marks. 

“ N.B.—The funeral is to be to-morrow at 12 
o’clock, at my burial-ground. Be sure to come. 

“J. M” 





THE BURIAL. 


19 


Marks meant to pay the cost, but who that 
knew David Meriwether but knew no widow 
ever paid a bill like that to him. 

The close fellowship of the old families in 
Wilkes in those early days was not disturbed 
by diJBPerences of worldly position, and no man 
was more beloved by the people who went to 
Pope's Chapel than Dick Wood,’ the exhorter 
and class-leader, and when the message went 
to the neighbors round, they came in numbers 
to console the widow. 

The young people came and sat up with the 
body all night, and sang and prayed during the 
long hours. Dear Sister Meriwether took the 
baby in her arms, and sang it to sleep, while 
Sister Marks took the house imder her care, and 
Sister Tait came over in her carriage the next 
day to bring the little things she thought poor 
Mary might need. 

The heart-crushed young widow bore her 
grief as well as she could, and the little chil¬ 
dren sobbed themselves to sleep. 

Bedtime had come, and Sister Marks said, 


20 


BERBT'S TRIUMPH. 


“ Now, Mary, you must lie down; you cannot 
stand this, and if you die what will they do ? ” 

Berry was sitting in the corner sobbing. The 
thought of his mother’s death now, for the first 
time, entered his mind. He rose, and rushing to 
her, buried his face in her bosom. “ Oh, mam¬ 
my ! ” he said, ‘‘you must not die. Pap is gone, 
and what will we do if you go too ? Mammy, 
don’t cry so. I’m gwine to take care of you, 
and do what I promised my pappy. Please go 
to bed and sleep.” 

The mother kissed the boy and quietly went 
to her room, and at last fell into a troubled 
slumber. 

The morning came, and early came the visitors, 
who had come to look once more on the face of 
a -dead man, who, living, all his neighbors loved. 
Kings have laid in state and not half so many 
true hearts have bewailed them as wept over 
Dick Wood, the overseer. 

A country funeral in Georgia eighty years ago 
was a simple and pathetic scene. It differed 
from anything like a funeral scene in these days. 


THE BURIAL, 


21 


There was no hearse, nor horses with nodding 
plumes, nor splendid burial caskets, nor floral 
tributes, and still less was it like the sad burial 
of a city pauper, whose bones, that nobody 
owns, are rattled merrily over the stones. 

The neighbors came, rich and poor alike. 
The body was placed in a plain pine coffin, 
covered with black cloth and lined with white ; 
and the calm face of Kichard Wood as he lay 
shrouded there was a picture of peace. 

After the last sad look had been had, and the 
last kiss from wife and children had been given, 
they bore the body to Brother Marks’ burial- 
ground. There was no priest, nor clergyman, 
but David Meriwether read a Psalm, then a 
hymn was sung, and a prayer offered, and then 
he said : “Brother Wood was an honest man, an 
industrious man and a praying man; he has 
gone to rest. Let us be ready to follow him, 
and let us not forget the widow and the chil¬ 
dren.” This was about all that was said, and 
when the grave was reached they sung, “ Come, 
let us join our friends above,” and laid him in 


22 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


the grave—and the dirt fell upon the coffin lid, 
and Mary Wood felt the pangs of widowhood. 
The crowd departed and the carriage rolled 
back to the overseer’s house at the quarter, and 
the widow was left alone with her babes. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE WroOW’S CRY. 

people have little time to brood. 
)y may sorrow, but they must 
k. Mary Wood loved her hus- 
,d; but Mary Wood loved her 
husband’s babes. And she must take care of 
them—to her, too, heaven was a reality, God was 
a real presence, and prayer had a real power, 
and there was real comfort in faith. It was a sad 
night, but, sad as it was, she gathered her babes 
around her and read and prayed with them. 

Dear little “Berry,” as she called her oldest boy, 
had never in his lifetime, as he could remem¬ 
ber the days, failed to pray, and this night, as he 
said, “ Our Father, give us our daily bread,” he 
felt, as he had never done before, what it was to 
have a father in heaven. There were three chil¬ 
dren, Asbury, Jane, and little Dick. Little Dick. 








24 


BERRYTRIUMPH. 


was the baby, a bright blue-eyed, curly headed 
little fellow, just able to toddle. He lay peacefully 
on his mother’s breast nor knew his loss. Jennie 
was a matronly girl of ten; there were three little 
graves in Brother Marks’ burial-ground that told 
of the absence of those who should have been 
between Asbury and his little brother. 

Brother Marks rode over the next morning 
with a basket of good things, sent by his wife. 

“ Mary,” he said, “I knowed your pappy in Vir- 
giny before we moved from Powhatan, and I 
had your husband with me for fifteen year, and 
you need not be afeared that John Marks is gwine 
to forget his promise to a dying man ; so you 
need not be worried about matters, you can just 
stay here, and use the things just as you used to 
when Dick was a living.” 

“ May the Lord bless you. Uncle Marks. You 
has allers been a good friend to the poor, and I 
know you’ll be to us, but you know my pappy 
allers taught us to work and be beholden to no 
one, any furder than we could help; and while 
I am mightily obleeged to you, as soon as we can 


THE WIDOWSS CRT. 


25 


get things fixed up, I will have to try and get a 
home.” 

“Well, I knowed you wer’n’t going to de¬ 
pend on anybody’s charity, but you must get 
started before you can walk. You have got to 
stay here the rest of the year, just the same as 
if Dick was living. After this year we’ll see.” 

The tone of the old man was positive, and Mary 
knew how it would pain him to refuse his kind 
offer. 

“ Well, Uncle Marks, if you’ll let Berry work 
for you, and let me tend to the milk, and see 
after the little niggers, like I’ve bin a doin’, so 
that I won’t feel like I’m gitting somethin’ for 
nuthin’, I reckon I’ll stay till January.” 

“I was down at Brother Grant’s,” said the 
old man, “ this morning, and he handed me this 
account, that Dick had at his store, and says it’s 
paid.” 

The eyes of the widow glistened with tears as 
she said: “ God is mighty good to his poor child.” 

“ Be faithful, Mary, be faithful and he’ll never 
forsake you,” said the old class-leader. 


26 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


There was little danger of want to the poor in 
Wilkes, and when John Marks’ broad fields and 
warm heart were pledged to shield the widow, 
she could rest secure. 

The widow of Richard Wood was about thirty- 
five years old. Her father, William Allen, had 
moved to Wilkes County before she was born, 
and settled on Fishing Creek. He was from 
Powhatan County, Virginia. He had always 
lived in a log house and never knew what lux¬ 
ury meant; when the new purchase was made, 
just before the Revolution, he moved out to the 
woods. He brought with him his axe, his gun, 
his wife, and three children, and but little else. 
The first summer the family of the settler lived 
in a board tent, under a great oak, but by the 
fall he had his cabin built, and they were shel¬ 
tered from the storms. 

There was no danger of starvation to so good 
a hunter as Allen, and he kept the larder sup¬ 
plied with venison and tokey, and bread corn 
was bought over the river in Carolina, and so 
the first year passed. Then crops came in. 


THE WIDOW'S GUT. 


27 


The stock was fed on the cane, and on the grass 
which covered the hills ; and when the Revolu¬ 
tion began he was, as said, “putty snug, right 
pert.” But the war came on ; for some time 
things were quiet enough in these woods, but 
when Augusta fell, and the tories began to rob 
and murder, and his neighbor John Dooley was 
killed, and Elijah Clarke began to call the men 
to the rescue, he went into the army. Then he 
came home again to find his wife had been 
forced to fly to the fort for shelter, and his farm 
devastated. 

But at last the war was over, and they were 
at the cabin at Fishing Creek again. 

One night in 1786, while Mary Allen was a 
little girl, up the trail leading to her father’s 
house came riding a stranger. His face was 
without a tinge of color, save a faint red spot on 
his cheek. His hair was black, tinged with gray, 
cut short, and lay upon his forehead. He wore 
a broad-brimmed black hat, and while dressed 
very plainly was dressed very neatly. Up to 
this time Mary Allen had never seen a preacher. 


28 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


John Major, for it was he, said very gently, 
“ Daughter, I am trying to find Captain Allen’s 
house. Do you know where he lives ? ” 

“Why, yes,” said the startled child. “I’m his 
darter, and I’m a gwine home now. I’ll show 
you whar we lives.” 

Ajid Mary Allen led the Methodist preacher to 
her father’s home. Well, I have not time to 
tell it all, but John Major had an appointment 
at William Allen’s house and, before many 
months, the mother joined in society. The cap¬ 
tain was not so easily reached, but he was pro¬ 
foundly moved. 

“Mr. Major,” he said to the preacher, “I al¬ 
ters thought before I seed you that God could 
do his own work without our a-helpin’ him, and 
ef he wanted me to live with him in Heaven, 
he’d fix me up for it, but ef I kin git ready, I’m 
a-gwine to do it.” 

He took his Bible and sought out the words 
the preacher told him to seek, and became a 
member of society, and afterward a local 
preacher. 


THE WIDOW^S CRY. 


29 


Mary Allen was about ten years old when her 
“ P^PPy>’' called him, began to have fam¬ 

ily prayer. When she was thirteen years old, 
and Hope Hull was on the Wilkes circuit, she 
joined in society too. She had little chance for 
schooling, and she knew but little of what was 
in books, but she knew how to work and how to 
pray. 

Kichard Wood was the son of one of the near 
neighbors, and Eichard Wood, when he was 
nineteen, asked Mary Allen to marry him. The 
old folks were a little doubtful, seeing that 
Eichard wer’n’t in society, but Mary was a 
good gal and her heart was sot on it, the mother 
said; and as Eichard was a good kind of a boy 
she reckoned they’d better not cross ’em, and 
so they were married; and Eichard took his 
bride to a little cabin on Squire Marks’ place 
to work some rented land, and after a year the 
squire made him his overseer, and there he was 
when he suddenly was called away. 


CHAPTEE lY. 


THE WIDOW’S PLANS. 

ERE was, save that Richard was 
gone, but little change in outside 
affairs. John Marks said to her : 
“ Mary you’ve got the keys and you 
can give the niggers their allowance, and take 
all you need for you and the children.” And old 
Sister Marks sent down the wool for the winter 
clothes of the children, with the cotton warp 
already spun, and the widow wove it. The win¬ 
ter was coming on and something must be done 
for the future. So Mary sent Berry up to call 
Brother Marks. 

“Uncle Marks,” she said when the old man 
came, “ you know I must move. You ought to 
have somebody to look after your business, and 
I must get somewhere when I can where we kin 
stay.” 






THE WIDOW'S PLANS. 


31 



“ Well, Mary, I have ben a thinking of these 
things, and I know you'are right. I loved your 
pappy and your husband, and I am not a gwine 
to forget you and the babies. You know Dick 


UNCLE MARKS. 

give me to keep for him the $250 that come 
to you from your pappy’s sale. I have had this 
for five year and it amounts with interest to 
$.325; then he left with me his savings, and 
these is $500 more. So you have about $800 
and the furniture of this house, and then there 




32 


BERRY^S TRIUMPH. 


is the mar Dick used to lide. He raised her 
from a colt, and I allers intended he should 
have her, and then Polly says the old red cow, 
which you have had so long, wan’t no account 
tell you tuck her, and you shall have her, and as 
the children must have something to ride in 
and you have something to move in, I reckon 
you must have the one-hoss wagon. Well now, 
stop, don’t say nothing! let me go on. I was 
down to Brother Grant’s, and he told me he had 
a little farm of one hundred and fifty acres 
which you mought have for |750. There is 
a double log cabin on it, and a stable and corn 
house, and thar is fifty acres under fence, thar is 
a good spring, and some powerful good nabors, 
and I think that’s the place for you, so ef you 
say so, I will go down thar and buy it for you.” 

The old man did not use the best grammar, 
and his words were not pronounced according 
to modern authorities, but despite that, John 
Marks was as fine a gentleman as ever left a col¬ 
lege hall, and Mary Wood knew that the dear 
old man had added a hundred more dollars to 


THE WIDOY/^S PLANS. 


33 


Dick’s savings, and had found other good ex¬ 
cuses for doing her kindnesses, but she knew 
she could not move his dear old obstinate heart, 
and so she simply said : 

“ That farm will exactly suit us. Uncle Marks, 
and you can make the trade for me, and we’ll get 
ready to move.” 

So the purchase was made and the Widow 
Wood and her children were soon to be settled 
in their new home. 

There were four of them. Mary Wood was 
not a pretty woman. Her life on the frontier, 
her hard work, her want of those delicate sur¬ 
roundings which insensibly beautify, had not 
made her so. But she was an attractive and in¬ 
teresting one. With an honest, open, benevo¬ 
lent face in which all kindliness shone, a great 
blue eye full of tenderness, and a sweet, clear 
voice, she was one of those to whom we are 
instinctively drawn. Then, too, she was neat¬ 
ness itself. Her plain homespun frock, the 
white handkerchief around her neck, the neatly 
smoothed locks of auburn hair were for every 
3 


34 


BERRT^S TRIUMPH. 


day, and her little cabin was as bright as good 
taste and cleanly habits could make it. 

Berry was now thirteen. He was a sturdy 
fellow, and rather a quiet one. Up at the dawn, 
out at the cribs to see about the stock, watch¬ 
ing all the interests of his employer, he well 
deserved the tribute of the old man, who said : 
“ Berry Wood was worth more on his plantation 
than half the overseers of Wilkes.” Berry had 
the wildest, tenderest love for his mother and 
the children. He felt that, as his father was 
gone, all the care of the family fell on him. 
He had never been a bad boy. Believing as I 
do in the fearful truth, that we are prone to 
evil and that continually, I believe as firmly in 
the counter truth, that the grace of God is al¬ 
ways ready to go with God’s truth, and that 
when parents use the means which God sup¬ 
plies that the natural tendency to evil is almost 
entirely overcome ; and in this humble home all 
that love and faith could do to save the children 
had been done. The voice of prayer was the 
first voice the little ones had heard—day by 


THE WIDOW'S PLANS. 


35 


day, morn and eve, the voice of the father had 
been heard in prayer, save when he was absent, 
and then the pleading tones of Mary Wood had 
taken their place. Berry did not think he was 
religious; he intended to be, and when he was 
old enough he expected to be; but he knew 
that to help his mother and to do right were 
the things he ought to do now, and he did 
them. 

Then there was Jane, who was the bright eyed 
daughter, and then came the toddler, little Dick, 
who was all in all to Berry. This was the family. 
Berry had come in from seeing afier the worming 
of the tobacco and the gathering of the corn. 
The hour of prayer was over, the children were 
in bed, and the widow and the boy consulted 
about the new move. 

The boy had become more and more thought¬ 
ful as he realized the responsibility of caring for 
his mother and sisters. Hitherto there had not 
been much call for planning, but now they were 
going away from the Marks place and the good 
man who had been like a father to the fatherless. 


36 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


and he found himself in the presence of puz¬ 
zling questions. 

^ “I told you, Berry,” said the mother, “that 
Uncle Marks was speaking of buyin’ that place 
down near Washington. Well, he’s made the 
trade, and we are gwine to move soon arter 
Christmas, and we must begin to fix for it. 
We’ve got the place; now, what else have we got?” 

“ Well, we’ve got plunder enough to fix us up.” 

“Yes.” 

“And then thars Bet, the old mar, what 
Brother Marks give us.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And Suk and Bossy, the cow and calf what 
Aunt Marks give us.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And then I’ve got a sow, and five pigs, and 
there’s Jennie’s cat and Dick’s fice; we’ve got a 
heap of things.” 

“Yes.” 

“ But we hain’t got a heap more. We hain’t 
got no corn, nor no fodder, nor no meat except 
what we’ll have when we kill the barrow.” 


THE WIDOWSS PLANS. 


37 


“Yes, I know that; but you know I’ve got fifty 
dollars after the place is paid for, and I think we 
can make out with that till the crop comes in. 
But whose gwine to work the place ? ” 

“Why, I am. Hain’t I big enough ? Hain’t I 
been ploughin’ ever since I was as high as the 
plough handles ? I’ll do the ploughin’, and Jen¬ 
nie will drap the corn, and I reckon you’ll have 
to do the hoeing, till I get rich enough to hire a 
hand. Oh, we’ll do first rate, see if we don’t, 
sweet old mammy,” and the bright faced boy 
threw his arms around her neck and kissed her, 
and she drew him to her heart and said to her¬ 
self, with a deep sigh, “ How much that boy is 
like his pappy.” 

Uncle Marks would not hear of the move till 
after Christmas, but the home at the quarter 
was given up, and the widow and the children 
went to the big house, where they spent the hol¬ 
idays, and then the big wagon carried their mov¬ 
ables, and Berry took the widow and children 
with him in the little wagon, and they moved to 
their new home. 


38 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


Good Sister Grant had ridden over from the 
home place with some of her servants and had 
the cabin made ready for the widow, and had 
not forgotten to have a substantial feast ready 
for the hungry children; and when they reached 
the place they found the big wagon was unloaded 
and the scanty furniture arranged, and a great 
fire was blazing in the wide hearth, and the 
sweet face of the gentlewoman from the planta¬ 
tion was smiling its welcome to the good widow. 

With a thankful, trusting heart, Mary Wood 
knelt with her children around the family altar 
of her own home that night. The children said 
their prayers, and even the kitten and Dick’s fice 
seemed perfectly at home in their new quarters. 


CHAPTER Y. 


THEY LOOK AROUND. 

was on a bright January morning 
in 1806, that Berry, opening his 
eyes in the new home, began to 
realize that he was the man of the 
house. He sprang up, dressed rapidly, for it 
was a cold day, and said his prayers, and then 
made the fire for the little ones to dress by, and 
went out to feed the stock. Mary was soon up, 
and went to the work of getting breakfast ready. 
That did not take long in those days. Hog 
killing was just over, and the sausages Sister 
Grant had left, and the crackling bread, made a 
savory breakfast for the hungry children. As 
to coffee, it was a rare luxury in those days even 
for the rich, and the sugar was carefully, hus¬ 
banded for company times. 

There were no cooking stoves or ranges, and 





40 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


all the work was done in the living room of the 
cabin, with a few cooking vessels. 

The widow knelt with her children and prayed 
trustingly and gratefully and lovingly to Him 
who had so cared for her in her lonely estate. 
Berry fed old Bet, who was contentedly munch¬ 
ing her corn in her new log stable, and fed 
Molly the cow, who was caressing little Bossy, 
the calf, as quietly as if she was not determined 
to run away to the old place as soon as she 
could steal Bossy out of the pen. A pompous 
rooster was fussing over the yard attended by 
a dozen hens, and the sow was making a commo¬ 
tion in her new pen because she had not had 
breakfast enough, as she thought. 

Mary had not seen the place before she 
bought it, and with Berry and the little ones 
began to look around. It was a sweet little 
home, such as one sometimes sees in Georgia 
now, and such as was common enough in those 
days. There was a hundred and fifty acres in 
the tract, one hundred in virgin forest, a beau¬ 
tiful brook was rushing over the rocks and then 


THEY LOOK AROUND. 


41 


went gliding through the canebrakes on the 
bottom. Grand oaks and hickories and fruitful 
chestnuts covered the hills. The little home 
consisted of two large rooms with a wide pas¬ 
sage between them. The house was of logs and 
the spaces between the logs were stripped with 
boards, it was unceiled, and the starlight came 
sometimes glimmering through the spaces of the 
boards on the roof. There was an enclosure of 
some four or five acres around it, which served 
as patches, and a small garden for those vege¬ 
tables which the chickens threatened. 

The good Brother Grant had sufficient wood 
brought to the house to supply his new neigh¬ 
bor for some days, and had brought a load of 
corn and fodder, and so with the supplies of 
meal and a small sack of flour, the family was 
comfortably provided for for the time being. 

Berry had fallen heir to his father’s long rifle 
—the one his grandfather had used at the bat¬ 
tle of King’s Mountain—and though it was a 
heavy load for a little fellow, he could hold it 
with a steady hand and bring a squirrel to the 


42 


BEERY'S TRIUMPH. 


ground with every bullet, and while his mother 
and the little ones were tramping through the 
woods he thoughtfully carried the rifle on his 
shoulder. Directly Dick’s flee sent forth a keen, 
sharp bark. 

“ Mammy, Trips treed, we’ll have a squirrel for 
supper, see ef we don’t.” 

There sat Trip, looking very earnestly up a 
large hickory. The boy peered anxiously among 
the branches until little Jennie said, “ Thar he is, 
bub, right up in the fork; don’t ye see him ? ” 

“ Yes, and I’ll get him too ! ” 

The sharp crack of the rifle soon followed, 
and down came the squirrel, shot in the head. 
This little story shows the boy. He was 
always on the lookout for something, and when 
he did his work he did it well. 

Trip was not satisfied with one squirrel, and 
two more rewarded the hunters, and at last the 
explorers returned to the cabin to get dinner. 
Berry spent the afternoon getting the wood cut 
up, and at night they gathered together around 
the fireplace. There were no lamps, and even 


THEY LOOK AROUND. 


43 


tallow dips were too scarce to be used every 
night, so they sat by the light made by the blaz¬ 
ing pine-wood, which was called “lightard”or 
light-wood ” because of this quality of giving 
light, and the boy and his mother began to 
plan. 

“Now, mammy, sens we is all settled, I 
reckon we must begin to get things ready for 
our crop, and I am thinkin’ what we kin do 
fust.” 

“ Well, Berry, what do you think we kin do, 
now ? ” 

“You know we are powerful skace of corn. 
We hain’t got but a wagon load, and that ain’t 
a-gwine to feed old Bet, let alone what we must 
send to mill; and we must git some truck as 
soon as we kin, out of the groun’; and I am 
thinkin’ we’d better put the small patch around 
the house in oats. I kin plough ’em in, and I 
reckon we kin git somebody to sow ’em for 
me.” 

“ But we hain’t got no seed. Berry, and they 
are always mighty scace this time of the year.” 


44 


BERRT'S TRIUMPH. 


‘‘ Well, I know tkat; but I am a-thinking that 
maybe Uncle Grant kin help us; any how, I am 
gwine to ax him.” 



BERRY AND OLD BET. 


“ Well, you kin do that to-morrer.” 

So the next day Berry threw his sack on Bet 
and rode over to Thomas Grant’s. He had seen 













THEY LOOK AROUND. 


45 


him frequently at Uncle Marks’, for they were 
old friends, and Brother Grant knew the boy. 
The house was larger than the widow’s, indeed 
a great deal larger ; but it was about as plain. 
There were a score of Negro cabins scattered 
around, and large barns and stables. 

“Well, Berry,” said Brother Grant, “what 
now?” 

“ Well, Uncle Grant, mammy and I have been 
a talkin’, and we is gwine to plant some oats, 
and we hain’t got no seed.” 

“Well! well! my little farmer, how are you 
going to make oats without seed ? and how am I 
to do it either, for I have got none neither ? ” 

Berry’s face fell, but Brother Grant pleasantly 
added, “But we won’t give it up, Berry. Major 
Toombs made a good crop, and I think if you’ll 
go and see him, he’ll let you have some.” 

“But, Uncle Grant, I don’t know whar he 
lives, and he don’t know me, and then we hain’t 
got no money ; but I am just obleeged to have 
some seed, so ef you’ll show me the way. I’ll go 
and see him.” 


46 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


“ Well, I’ll send Jack with you, and I’ll write 
a note for you to take.” 

So Uncle Grant wrote the note, which read 
thus: 

“ Dear Major : If you can help my little friend 
please do so. Truly, 

“Thos. Grant.” 

So over to the big house Berry rode, guided 
by Jack. The major’s house was the best in 
the country. It was called the “ White House ” 
because it was the first of the kind in that sec¬ 
tion. 

He had taken up four thousand acres of land 
just after the Kevolution, and had brought a hun¬ 
dred slaves with him from Virginia, and lived in 
a right lordly way. 

Berry had never seen such a house, and was a 
little frightened at going to it, but he wanted 
the oats, and so, after Jack left him at the end 
of the lane, he rode up the avenue. The old 
major had just ridden up to the house for din¬ 
ner when Berry stopped at the gate. 


THEY LOOK AROUND. 


47 


“ Hello! ” said the boy. 

“’Light and come in,” said the major, and 
Berry walked up the avenue. 

“ Is you Major Toombs ? ” 

“ Yes ; and who are you ?” 

“ Why, I’m Berry Wood.” 

“ Where did you come from ?” 

“ Well, I come from up in Elbeirt, but I’m 
come now from Mr. Grant’s, and he sent you 
this paper.” 

The major read it. 

“ Well, sir, what do you want ? ” 

“ I want some oats to plant.” 

“ You do! Well, who’s going to plant them ? 
have you got any niggers ? ” 

“Why, no, sir. Pap was too poor to own any 
niggers, and mammy says I am the only nigger 
she’s got, les’ it’s Dick, and Dick’s the baby.” 

• “ Well, who’s going to plant the oats?” 

“Why, I am, ef you or Brother Grant or 
somebody will sow ’em for me.” 

“ H’m, h’m! me sow your seed! Well, where’s 
your money ? ” 


48 


BERRT'S TRIUMPH. 


“ Well, we done spent it all. We bought the 
land and we bought the com and fodder; but I 
reckon you kin trust us—we’ll be sure to pay 
you.” 

“You will, will you? Well, I reckon you 
won’t.” 

Berry’s face flushed and the major burst into 
a laugh. 

“ No, you won’t, because I am going to give 
’em to you, and I am going to send down old 
Mingo, and have ’em ploughed in; so come in, 
neighbor farmer, and let’s have dinner. Here’s 
my wife. Julia, here is one of your Methodist 
kin. Your ma is a Methodist, ain’t she ? ” 

“Oh, yes, she is in society and so was pap, 
and my grandpappy was a preacher, but I ain’t 
in society yet. I’m too little to get converted.” 

The good sister said gently : 

“ Well, Berry, I’m glad you try to help youj: 
mother. Now you must have dinner, and then 
you can go. Won’t your mother be uneasy ? ” 

“ Why, no, mammie knows I am all right, she’s 
never afeared about me and old Bet, ’case she 


TRET LOOK AROUND. 


49 


knows old Bet ain’t a gwine to run away, and I 
ain’t neither.” 

The major sat at the head of his well-laden 
table with the boy at his side. A toddy was 
brought to him by his man-servant. 

“Well, Berry, you’re a little fellow, but would 
you like a weak toddy ? ” 

“ No, sir ; mammie said I must never take tod¬ 
dies and I ain’t a gwineter.” 

“Well, you are right. Won’t you have some 
ham ? ” 

“ Why, don’t you say grace.” 

The major looked quizzically at his wife. 

“ No, Berry, but he ought to. Can’t you say 
grace for us.” 

“ Yes, mam : ‘ Lord make us thankful for what 
we are about to receive, and forgive us our sins, 
for Christ’s sake, amen.’ ” 

The major had a good many playful sallies 
with the artless boy, and filled his sack with seed 
oats. Berry, however, was not permitted to go 
till Sister Toombs came out with a basket, and 
giving it him said : “ Take this to your ma; tell 


50 


BEBRT^S TRIUMPH, 


her ni call and get the basket when I go to 
Washington.” It was well filled. There was 
butter, and sugar, and tea, and coffee, luxuries 
the poor did not often have in those days. 

The mother was anxiously looking for the 
boy when he rode up to the cabin-door and 
brought the story of the day, and then Mary’s 
heart swelled again with gratitude to Him who 
had raised her up friends in her widowhood. 


CHAPTER YL 


MINGO. 



HE major had been much amused at 
the artless simplicity of the boy 
and, sympathizing with the widow, 
he decided to send his favorite old 


slave Mingo to do the work, which he knew 
Berry could not do. 

Over fifty years before this, when Squire 
Toombs went down from Powhatan to James¬ 
town to ship his tobacco to London, he found 
that the English ship, which was to return with 
a load of tobacco, had not long before brought 
in a cargo of African slaves. He did not intend 
to buy any new negroes, as these Africans were 
called, but the factor, who knew him well, said 
to him, “ Squire, here is a young nigger who I 
wish you would buy. He don’t belong to this 
crowd. They are Guineas, and he is a Goolah, 







52 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


and they treat him bad. I’ll sell him cheap. 
Here, Mingo 1 ” 

A black boy of about fifteen came running at 
the call. 

What’s your name, boy,” said the squire. 

“Mingo. Massa, no talk.” 

“ Want to go with me ? ” 

“ Want home, home. No stay here ; treat 
bad.” 

“ Take him along, squire. Give me five thou¬ 
sand pounds of tobacco next fall, and I’ll give 
you a bill of sale.” 

“ Well, I’ll take him. Mingo, come ! ” 

The little negro, with a broad grin of his 
black face, took his place in the large ox-wagon, 
and started for his new home. 

The squire had a little boy at home, for the 
major of whom we are writing was then ten 
years old, and it was partly to please the boy, 
but chiefly to help Mingo, he had bought him. 

When he reached home he called to Gabriel, 
who came out to meet him. 

“ See, Gabe, I’ve brought you a little nigger. 


MINGO. 


53 


Take good care of him, and give him some sup¬ 
per. Mingo, your master.” 

Mingo bowed very low and said, “Mingo, 
massa—massa ; no big-” 

“Come, Mingo, get supper.” 

The hungry little negro for the first time in 
his life had kindly words spoken to him and 
good food given him. He was bright, and he 
had little to do but to follow his young master 
about, and so he soon learned to talk plainly 
enough to be understood. His attachment to the 
family, and especially to young master, grew 
stronger and stronger every day, and Gabe and 
Mingo were always together. Like all the old 
Virginians, the squire kept fine horses, and 
Mingo rode them, with his boon companion. 
They hunted together, and fished together, and 
bathed together. One day, as they were bathing, 
Gabe ventured beyond his depth and would 
have been drowned, but the faithful slave 
brought him safely out. One day Selim, the 
blooded colt, ran away with him, and in his 
panic was sweeping toward a precipice, over 



54 


BERRT'S TRIUMPH. 


which was death. Mingo was riding the col¬ 
onel’s fastest racer, and seeing his young mas¬ 
ter’s peril, he dashed before him, and, leaning 
over as he rushed by, caught the bridle of the 
colt, to be himself dragged to the ground. He 
checked the colt, and again saved his master’s 
life, though he severely hurt himself. 

The young master grew to be a man, and 
married and went into the war, and rode with 
Washington’s troopers through Virginia and the 
Carolinas, and Mingo went with him. When he 
was sick a long time, in the camp at Valley 
Forge, Mingo watched him to life again ; and 
when he was cut down by a British dragoon on 
Colonel Washington’s southern campaign, it 
was Mingo who sent his own sword crashing 
through the skull of the trooper, and bore his 
master off the field. 

Mingo had never married. He had long been 
a Methodist, and as he was a new nigger and a 
Methodist his fellow-slaves had but little use 
for him. These were the avowed reasons, but 
the true ones were the major’s partiality for him. 



1 1 


t 




,' 5 . 


THE MAJOR IN 


THE WAR, 












































56 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


and Mingo’s place of favor. He had once been 
the driver; but now he was old, and so he had his 
cabin, his horse and, save to see' after the stock 
and sow grain and do garden work, Mingo w’as 
really‘a free man. 

“Mingo,” said the major, “there’s a Metho¬ 
dist sister of your’s who has just moved to the 
Grant Gum Creek-place, and I want you to go 
down to-morrow and sow some oats for her, and 
if she needs you, you can stay as long as you 
please. Miss Martha will give you your rations, 
and you can take some corn with you, and go 
and help her.” 

And so next morning, bright and early, Mingo 
was at the widow’s cabin. » 

“ Morning, ma’m ! Massa Major sont me here 
for do some little job for you. Massa mighty 
pleased with little pickaninnie what comes yes¬ 
terday ; missus, she say I stay to help you fix 
up—I’m Mingo, Marsa Major’s Mingo.” 

“Well, Mingo, I’m powerful glad you’ve 
come. Berry’s up to plant a leetel patch of oats, 
but the boy never sowed a grain in his life, and 


MINGO. 


57 


he seemed to think everybody was like Brother 
Marks, and he told me how he axed the major 
to sow em for him.” 

“ Massa Major laff at pickaninnie, and say I 
must sow em for him, and help to plough de 
patch up. So, Pick, show me de patch, and git 
de plough, and we will go to wuk! ” 

It was quite early, and the widow had not had 
prayers or breakfast, so she said to the old 
slave : 

“ Stop a little, Mingo, we are gwine to have 
prayer, and then you must have some break¬ 
fast.” 

“Mingo done hab he breakfus, but Mingo 
always glad to hear de good buke read and de 
prayer.” 

The service was over and Mingo and Berry 
went to the little five-acre patch, and in a few 
days had the work done. Mingo went back to 
his cabin every night, and returned every morn¬ 
ing. 

Thomas Grant was not forgetful of his needy 
neighbor, and kept an eye out for her needs, and 


58 


BEMRT^S TRIUMPH. 


had his hands to split rails and pile the logs and 
get things ready for the crop to be made. 

One day Mingo came with Jerry and a plough, 
and said to Mrs. Wood : 

“Massa say I got nobody to tak care of, I 
must tak car of you; and I tell massa I don 
git tired of watching dem lazy and sassy young 
niggers, and ef he say so, I come here—I like to 
heah you pray and read the book.” And so 
Mingo and Berry went to work on the widow's 
farm. 

The widow had her patch of flax and cotton, 
and her garden, which she worked with her own 
hands. She spun and wove, and had a yard full 
of chickens, and some thrifty pigs, and the faith¬ 
ful old cow supplied the family with milk and 
butter. 

A Georgia home of the past days of the cen¬ 
tury, such as the widow Wood’s home -^as, has 
its counterpart in Georgia now, but not where 
my young readers are apt to see it; and Georgia 
life as it then was does not differ a great deal 
from Georgia life in some parts of Georgia now. 


MINGO. 


59 


but differs much from the life of towns and vil¬ 
lages. 

The home we have described. The farm was 
comparatively new. The fields which had been 
opened for cultivation were not fully cleared of 
the trees, and when "we spoke of a log-rolling, 
we spoke of an important event in those simple 
days ; a house-raising, a log-rolling, and a corn- 
shucking were great things in the early history 
of a neighborhood. The widow had one large 
field of thirty acres and sundry small patches. 
There was little cultivated except those products 
a family needed for food. There were large 
stretches of forest-covered land, and in these 
were great quantities of wild-pea vines and na¬ 
tive grasses, while by the side of every rippling 
brook the young cane grew in great luxuriance, 
affording fine pasturage for cattle, winter and 
summer. The fare at the cabin of the widow, 
and of most of the people, was not scanty, al¬ 
though it was plain. There was little wheat, and 
flour-bread was a luxury. Coffee and sugar 
were by no means common. There were but 


60 


BERRT^S TRIUMPH. 


few luxuries, but the substantials were abun¬ 
dant. There was bacon, and corn bread, and 
buttermilk, and now and then sassafras tea. 
The children were dressed in very homely garb. 
The winter clothing was of jeans, when wool could 
be secured, but often rabbit-fur was used in the 
place of wool. The shoes were made of red 
leather, which had been tanned in a trough, and 
made by a country shoemaker. One pair did a 
boy a year, and to go barefooted was the com¬ 
mon lot of girls and boys till they were grown. 

The country church which the widow Wood at¬ 
tended was a log house, forty by fifty feet, where 
they taught school in summer in addition to hav¬ 
ing preaching on one Sunday in the month. It 
had no window-glass and only some rough board- 
shutters to protect from cold winds or hot suns. 
The people were working people and few of 
them were educated, and Berry and Mingo were 
like hundreds of others, when negro man and 
white boy worked side by side in the corn-field. 
Mingo was very fond of his little work-fellow, 
and Daddy Mingo a great favorite in the hum- 


MINGO. 


61 


ble home. He went back to his cabin almost 
every night, for that was his castle, but some¬ 
times he spread his blanket before the kitchen 
fire, and stayed at the widow’s home. When he 
did he spent the evenings with the family sitting 
in the corner, where he delighted the children 
with his tales of African life, and of Firginy, as 
he called Virginia. 

One night in early spring Mingo said to Berry: 

“ Pick, did ye eber kill de turkey ? ’* 

“ No, Daddy Mingo, and I should be so glad 
to kill one.” 

“ Well, me hear an old fellah gobble, gobble, 
dis mornin’ as I came to work, and I tink you 
shall kill he. Get e gun all ready and I call e 
up for you, and you hab turkey dinner, suh.” 

The boy was eager for the sport, and so the 
bullets were moulded, and the rifle wiped out, 
and Berry went early to bed to dream of getting 
his first wild turkey. 


CHAPTER YII. 


THE TURKEY HUNT AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 

stars were still shining and the 
i: was very crisp and cold, when 
ingo called Berry. 

“ Come, Pick, dat ole gobbler be 
for leffing de swamp, and you no hab turkey for 
dinner.” 

“I am all right Daddy Mingo, and Betsy’s 
loaded for turkey,” responded the boy, who came 
ready dressed from the other room. The coals 
had been stirred and a pine-knot fire was blaz¬ 
ing on the hearth. The turkey hunters were 
well warmed, and then set out to the swamp. 

Now, Pick, you neber shoot de turkey befo*, 
you mind you no git de turkey wobbles when 
you see de old gobbler come a struttin like Mass 
Major when he wars he soldier clothes.” 

“ ni do my bes*. Daddy Mingo, to keep cool. 











( 





























64 


BERRY^S TRIUMPH. 


case I do want to give mammie one turkey I 
killed myself.” ' 

“Well, now, I git ahind a big white oak, and I 
call de old man gobbler, and e tink I his wife. 
Den he say ‘ gobble, gobble,’ and he fly down, 
and he raise he fedders, and come strut, strut, 
for find he wife, and when he no find her he 
raise he head, and luk, and while he luk you 
bang away, and don’t you miss he, Pick.” 

“ I don’t spect to miss, and old Betsy’s power¬ 
ful sure to send the lead straight.” 

“Well, now, hush talking. Pick, and walk 
mighty slow and easy, case old Mass Gobbler 
roost mighty high, and see mighty fur, and hear 
mighty quick.” 

Silently old Mingo and Berry made their way 
to the swamp and took position. 

Mingo drew from his pocket a reed which he 
had prepared, and very sweetly he sounded the 
note of a hen turkey. It W’as not long before 
the male bird began to gobble in reply, and 
then there was the whir of wings, and soon Berry 
saw through the open woods, a hundred yards 


THE TURKEY HUNT. 


65 


away, a grand gobbler coming toward him. 
Again Mingo sounded the call; the gobbler 
looked up and sent out the reply. He was a fine 
bird. His black feathers and his red throat 
formed a fine contrast. Berry lay still, and slow¬ 
ly the proud bird came nearer; at last he was in 
range ; the boy’s hand was steady and his eye 
bright, and when lie drew trigger, down came 
the turkey quivering from a bullet through his 
neck. 

“ Good for you, Pick. "You no have turkey 
wabbles. He big fellow; you give me he tail 
for mak Miss Julia one fan, but load up quick, 
we git anuder one down de crik.” 

And they did. 

They were home by early breakfast, and the 
widow was justly proud of her brave boy. 

What was she to do with two such birds? 
The turkey came in good time, for the next day 
was Quarterly meeting, and Brother Tapley, who 
preached her husband’s funeral, was coming to 
see her; but even a Methodist preacher is not 
sufficient for two turkeys. At last. Berry said : 

9 


66 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


“ Mammie, you reckon the major will care if I 
send him the biggest gobbler ? I know he’s got 
a heap of tame turkeys, case he had a big one 
the day I was thar, but they ain’t good like the 
wild ones, and if ye think he won’t care. I’ll git 
Daddy Mingo to take the gobbler to him to-night.” 

“Well, I reckon he won’t care. The major’l 
know it hain’t because we think he’s poor. 
Poor folks like us is mighty techus when it 
comes to given things to eat.” 

Mingo agreed that Miss Julia would not mind, 
and he thought the major would like to .git it 
because Berry killed it. 

So that night Mingo came to the white house 
with his message. 

“ Master, little Pick done shot two turkey. E 
shoot him tro' neck, bof time. He say he 
mammie and two children can’t eat but one, and 
he hope you won’t care nor tink he too free, case 
he sent ye dis one,” and Mingo laid a great 
twenty-pound bird at his master’s feet. 

“ Why, bless the boy. I don’t care, eh—but I 
do care; I care so much that I am going to do 


THE TURKEY HUNT. 


67 


something for that boy. You say, Mingo, he 
killed two ? 

“ Yes, sah, he shoot em bofe fro’ the head. De 
preacher he cornin’ dar to-morrow, and little 
Pick he have turkey dinner for ’em-” 

“ So the preacher is going to eat that poor 
woman out of house and home ; why don’t he 
come here, I’ve got enough for him and she 
hasn’t ? ’’ 

“ Why, major, you would not have Brother 
Tapley to pass the widow by because she’s poor ; 
you can send her something to help her out,” 
said the gentle wife. 

“ Yes, I can and I will. Mingo you load up the 
cart with corn and fodder and put in a big bas¬ 
ket of sweet potatoes and some turnips, and if 
your Miss Julia ain’t too stingy get her to give 
you a ham, and some sugar and coffee.” 

“Never fear, ’bout Miss Julia, she neber have a 
stingy bone in her body.” And so the next morn¬ 
ing, early, Mingo, loaded with good things, went 
to the widow’s farm. He was arrayed in his best, 
as he always was on preaching days. 


CHAPTER YIIL 


QUARTERLY MEETING IN THE OLD TIMES. 

WOULD like to give my young 
readers a view of a country church 
in Wilkes in the early days of the 
century, and of a country congre¬ 
gation before “Lands increased, and men and 
farms decayed,” so we will go to the Quarterly 
meeting at Grant’s Meeting House in Wilkes 
County. The meeting house was the first in 
Georgia. It had been been built by Daniel 
Grant about twenty years before this time. It 
was of great hewed logs. The floors were of 
plank, which had been sawed with a whip-saw. 
The windows were mere open places in the logs 
without window glass, and only protected by 
board shutters. The seats were backless benches. 
The pulpit was high up on the wall, and was a 
close box, and when the preacher went inside 






QUARTERLY MEETING. 


69 


he carefully closed and buttoned the door, and 
for a little while sank out of sight, and when he 
sat on the little bench inside the box his head 
could scarcely be seen above the high book- 
board. He carried his own bible and hymn 
book, so there was none on the pulpit. 

There was a very plain pine table and plain 
hide-covered chairs; this was all the furniture. 
The people came to worship or to hear, not to be 
comfortable, and they did not expect to be so. 
The population was very large. The country 
had filled up very rapidly after the Eevolution, 
and the liberal grants of the State to the sob 
diers had brought in quite a population, which 
was rapidly increasing. 

There were few rich people and few very poor. 
The farmers owned their own farms, and lived 
at home. They raised their own provisions, 
and the wives made their garments. They were 
a sturdy set, and to some degree a lawless set, 
but they always went to meeting. A Baptist 
association or a Methodist Quarterly meeting 
brought out great crowds, and now to this Quar- 


70 


BERRY^S TRIUMPH. 


terly meeting at Grant’s the Methodists came 
from sections forty miles apart. The Metho¬ 
dists could all be told by their dress. Every 
man wore a straight-breasted coat, and no sister 
had a ruffle, a ring, or a feather. The country 
girls looked very bright in the new homespun 
dresses, and the suit of yellow jeans which the 
boys wore as well as their fathers, were, if not 
very comely, very comfoi-table. The young maid¬ 
ens, and for all that the older ones, who walked 
to church wore strong, stout leather shoes, which 
in summer they carried in their hands. There 
were many, however, who rode, and the Wilkes 
girl who could not manage a wild colt, or 
the Wilkes boy that was afraid to ride any¬ 
thing was hard to find. The widow early on 
Saturday got everything ready, and Aunt Cindy 
Crutchfield, the old colored neighbor, came over 
to cook dinner for her, so she might go to Quar¬ 
terly meeting. Mingo took little Dick and little 
Jennie in the cart, and as it was only two miles 
to meeting Berry and his mother walked. I am 
a little afraid my young readers would have 


QUARTERLY MEETING, 71 * 

lauglied no little at Berry as, arrayed in his Sun¬ 
day fixings, he went by his mother’s side to church 
that day. His hat was of wool, and was never 
very shapely, except that it had a brim or crown. 
His coat was of yellow jeans, and was a little 
small, for boys do grow so fast. It was a round¬ 
about, and instead of horn buttons, which were 
scarce, the mother had made the buttons of his 
coat of gourd shell. His vest was of striped 
linsey; indeed you could see that it was made 
of a part of Mary’s dress, his jeans pants, of blue, 
came only down to his ankles, where they joined 
or covered a pair of blue yarn socks, and his 
really large feet were incased in a pair of raw- 
hide shoes, which had never been blacked, and 
which had not been improved in looks by the 
Wilkes mud. 

Berry was never a handsome boy, but he was a 
clean one, and as he trudged thoughtfully along 
by his mother’s side the man who could read a 
boy would have said there was something in 
him. 

In those days Saturday was almost as big a 


72 


BERRY^S TRIUMPH. 


day as Sunday at a Quarterly meeting, and a 
great crowd had already come when they 
reached the church. 

Among the first who met Berry’s eye was 
Uncle Marks. 

“Law, mammy,” he said, “if thar ain’t Uncle 
Marks, and he’s got little Jennie by one hand, 
and Dick on his arms,” and he broke away from 
his mother for his old Elbert County friend. 

“ Why, Berry, bless my soul, here you are; and 
where’s your mammie ? ” 

“ Thar she is; and I declar she’s so glad to 
see ye she is a-cryin’ about it.” 

“Why, Mary, are you so sorry to see me 
you’ve got to cry? Well, you need not take on 
so. I ain’t a gwine to stay long.” 

“Oh, Uncle Marks,”said the widow, smiling 
through her tears, “ I hain’t crying for sorrow, 
you know I hain’t. But tell me, how are the 
folks ? Did you bring Aunt Marks ? ” 

“ No; some of the little niggers was sick, and 
you know Polly thinks it committing a rale sin 
if she lets anybody nuss one of ’em but her. So 


QUARTERLY MEETING. 


73 


I had to leave her, but she sent you a power of 
love.” 

“Well, you’re gwine home with us, and you 
can tell me all about ’em.” 

“Well, I reckon Polly, never forgive me if I 
didn’t, and besides she sent some things; they 
are in my saddle pockets, for Dick and Jennie 
and the rest of you. But there’s the preachers.” 

They were dismounting. There was Brother 
Tarpley, the circuit preacher. Brother Hull, 
the local preacher, and Brother Myers the 
elder. 

Uncle Hull and Uncle Tai'pley, as Berry called 
them, he knew very well, but the stern-looking, 
red-faced, stout little German who was with 
them he had not seen. 

They went into the meeting house, where a 
good congregation were already present, and 
after opening the services Brother Myers began 
his sermon. 

The elder was a German; there could be no 
doubt of that to any one who heard his strong 
German brogue. He had a sharp, clear voice, 


74 


BERRT^S TRIUMPH. 


and a very commanding way. He was so direct 
and' so easily understood that Berry became in¬ 
terested from the beginning. He was trying, as 
he said, to search out the sinner and bring him 
from his hiding-place. Now, Berry had always 
thought himself to be an unusually good boy. 
He had no little of the spirit of Little Jack 
Horner, who sat in the corner, and felt, if he 
did not say it, “What a good boy am I!” and 
Uncle Myers talked about the drunkards, and 
horse-traders, and rich, godless planters who 
drove so hard to make money, and the proud 
girls who wore feathers and ruffles and rings. 
Berry felt very glad he was so much better than 
they, when the preacher, as he thought, turned 
right toward him. “Oh, my frents, ven you 
tink dat a leetle poy like dis one can have his 
heart full of tevilish pride and conceit, and can 
be so blinded as to tink he can be saved by his 
goodness, what can you say of yourselves ? Ah, 
my son, my son, you tink you are ferry goot, 
but God sees your heart, and he knows how 
vain, and proud, and passionate, and wilful you 


QUARTERLY MEETING. 


Y5 

are. You are a leetle snake now, but you will 
be a pig one some time if your whole heart is 
not changed.” 

Poor Berry I The preacher had found him out, 
and had told him all that was in his heart. But 
after a while the severe arraignment of the whole 
congregation ended, and Brother Hull rose to 
speak. He looked to be a very stern man, and 
his voice was very full and round ; but he was as 
gentle as a girl. He told them sin had abound¬ 
ed, sin did abound, but that grace did much 
more aboimd; and as he spoke of God’s mercy 
and love and pity the hearts of the simple people 
began to overflow, and there were loud shouts of 
joy. Berry was used to that, and firmly believed 
that folks who did not shout now and then were 
not good much. He felt very sadly because Un¬ 
cle Myers told him he was such a sinner and 
nobody told him he could be better, for even 
Brother Hull was talking to the old professors, 
and not to him. 

The meeting was long, and then the preacher 
closed, and Sister Wood went to Brother Tarpley, 


76 


BERBT'IS TRIUMPH, 


who said, warmly : “ Well, sister, I am going to 
see you, as I promised.” 

“ Yes, and you must bring Uncle Hull, for 
Uncle Marks is gwine, and bring Uncle Myers 
too, if he kin put up with our poor doin’s.” 

Berry was a little troubled at Brother Myers’ 
going. The sturdy German had read his heart 
so accurately that he was a little afraid; but 
they had no time to talk. Uncle Marks took 
Mary and Jennie in his gig, and little Dick and 
BeiTy rode in the cart with Mingo, and they 
were soon at the cabin. 


CHAPTER IX. 



THE LOVE-FEAST, THE SERMON, AND BERRY’S 
CONVERSION. 

jRRY and Mingo went to the horse 
lot, where they fed the preacher’s 
horses, and then Berry rather re¬ 
luctantly went into the house. He 
felt convicted of his faults. He was proud, he 
knew that XJncle Marks thought him so smart, 
that his mother trusted him so fuUy, and he 
knew he was quick-tempered, and often said very 
bad things when he was angry, and he could not 
hide it from himself that he was often very selfish. 
But how Uncle Myers found it out puzzled the 
boy. He found, however, when he came into the 
house, that Uncle Myers had little Dick on his 
knee, giving him a merry ride, and his look was 
not stem at all; and when he came in and Uncle 
Marks said : Well, my young overseer, Tm glad 
to see you agin—Brother Myers, this is Berry 








78 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


Wood, the best boy in Wilkes County,’* and 
Uncle Myers replied, “ Veil, Berry, I’m glad to 
hear dat. You’ve got a mighty goot name, for 
petter men than Francis Asbury are hard to 
find, and I hope you are going to be like him,” 
Berry began to hope that he was not in such 
disfavor after all. No circles are brighter than 
those of true Christian people, and the early 
Methodist preachers were men of great cheer¬ 
fulness, and so Brother Hull and Brother Tar- 
pley and Brother Marks made things very lively 
until the dinner-hour. 

What good woman in those days was not anx¬ 
ious to give a good dinner to the preacher, and, 
as the quaint saying was, to put the little pot in 
the big one at quarterly meeting times? Mary 
Wood was a good house-wife, and Aunt Cindy 
Crutchfield was a good cook, and the thoughtful 
lady of the White House, as the major’s house 
was called, had supplied the widow’s scanty 
larder with a sufficient supply. 

“Why, Mary,” said Brother Marks, when the 
table was surrounded after the blessing had been 


TEE LOVE-FEAST. 


70 


asked, “you must be getting rich mighty fast 
sence you moved—a big turkey already ! ” 

“ That’s Berry’s turkey, Uncle Marks ; he killed 
two wild ones t'other morning, and he’s about 
the proudest boy in Wilkes. But you mustn’t 
think I am rich, or proud—the fact is. I’ve got 
some mighty good neighbors. The Lord is 
mighty good to me.” 

“Yes, I’ve been a-trusting Him a long time, 
Mary, and I’ve seed many others trust Him too, 
but I never seed one who was forsaken.” 

“ You say your husband was named Richard 
Wood, sister?” said Brother Myers. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“WeU, I expect he was the same Dick that 
went to Parson Brown when he taught at your 
house. Brother HuU.” 

“ Yes, he was the same.” 

“Well, Dick was a mighty goot fellow, but I 
never tought he would be an exhorter. The fact 
was, Dick was much a man, and would fight at 
the dropping of a hat, and drop it himself, but he 
was the soul of good humor.” 


80 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


Dick was a powerful man,” said Brother 
Marks, “ but after he got religion he was gentle 
as a lamb ; he never fout but once after he 
joined Society, and I could not blame him much 
for that. You see, Dick was the best man of his 
age in the county, and Jeff Worthy had a bout 
with him once, and got worsted. Well, after 
Dick got religion he was mighty peaceable, and 
one day he went down to Petersburg, just after 
he married Mary, to sell a little tobacco. Jeff 
was thar, and he was a little in liquor, and he 
begun to pick on Dick. Dick done his best to 
get away. Jeff told him he was a coward and a 
hypocrite, and dared him to lay his hand on him; 
but Dick stood it all. At last he said: ‘Dick 
Wood, you can’t fight and you won’t fight a man 
of your strength, and you are a bigger coward 
than ever since you married Moll Allen, whose 
old pappy run like a quarter boss at Kettle Creek ; 
but you can’t git away from me now—you’ve got 
to fight.’ Dick stood it pretty well, but I saw the 
flash of his eye, and I knowed there was no use a- 
talkin*, so I just stood off. Dick fust took off his 


THE LOVE-FEAST. 


81 


old Methodist coat, like he was a-going to split 
rails, and he said, as quiet as I ever seed him: 
‘ Well, Jeff, as nothing else will do, by the Lord’s 
help I’m a-gwine to give you such a whipping as 
you hain’t had in a long time.’ So they formed 
a ring, and if you ever saw a fellow catch it, it 
was Jeff. After Dick had made him holler good, 
he got up and took him by the hand, and lifted 
him up, and the tears came into his eyes as he 
said : ‘ Jeff, I had to do it, but I don’t bear no 
malice.’ ‘No more do I,’ says Jeff. The next 
Sunday was preaching day, and they had Dick 
up in Society for fighting ; but Jeff was thar, and 
when the class-leader said Dick Wood had been 
a-fighting Jeff he got up and took all the blame, 
and, ‘Now,’ he said, ‘my friends, I am a-gwine to 
join Society too, if you’ll take me, for I know Dick 
Wood would have mighty nigh beat the life out 
of me if he hadn’t had religion, and I am gwine 
to have it too,’ and Jeff was one of the best mem¬ 
bers of old Asbury till he died.” 

Mary’s face brightened at the story of Dick’s 
fight for her father’s good name, and she added; 

6 


82 


BERRY^S TRIUMPK 


“ But pappy didn’t run, did he, Uncle 
Marks?” 

“Not a step, till the Tories gave way, and then 
he run after them.” 

The dinner was soon ended, for there were no 
second or third courses after the substantials 
were eaten ; and after prayers the preachers sepa¬ 
rated, Brother Marks and Brother Hull going to 
Brother Grant’s, and Brother Myers and Brother 
Tarpley going to the Major’s. The next morning, 
bright and early, the widow’s family were astir, 
for the Quarterly Meeting Love-feast was to 
begin at nine o’clock, and at half-past nine the 
doors would be shut. 

I do not deny the fact that this is a Methodist 
story, and that as a Methodist story it aims to 
give my little readers an insight into some 
Methodist usages of the days of our fathers, 
and so I will give them a view of an old-time 
Love-feast. The Society, as the church was 
called, met early in the morning. No one ex¬ 
cept the members of Society or serious peo¬ 
ple were permitted to go in to the meeting; at 


THE LOVE-FEAST. 


83 


half-past nine o’clock the door was shut, and if 
one was late he could not go in. There were 
two plates of plain unleavened bread, and two 
plain glasses full of pure water. The Presiding 
Elder led this meeting. The little children of 
the families were admitted even though not in 
Society, but the older ones, if they had not 
joined, were shut out. Brother Myers told 
them that this was not a sacrament, but it was 
simply a feast of love, and that the bread and 
water were taken as tokens of love, and that was 
all. After singing and prayer they told, one 
after another, their experiences. The Presiding 
Elder told his first. He said : 

“I vas raised a Luteran. My good mudder 
taught me the Augsburg catechism in German. 
I was talked to by the clergyman, and ven I vas 
about fourteen I vas confirmed. The Methodist 
preacher, old Brother Humphries, haf an ap¬ 
pointment near vere ve - lif. I go ; he showed 
me my heart. I saw I vas not a new creat¬ 
ure. I begin at vonce to seek for a new heart. 
I fount ii I joined de Society. The Lord 


84 


BERUT'S TRIUMPH. 


called me to breach, and I left all, and I am here 
to-day. The rest vill now speak on.” 

Brother Tarpley, Brother Hull, and Brother 
Grant all spoke, and then Brother Marks got 
up. His face was aglow with joy. He said : 

“ My Bruthern : I was brought up in old 
Powhatan, in old Virginia. My father belonged 
to the Church of England, but when the Kevolu- 
tion came on, and our old parson stuck to the 
king, my father give up the church. I was in 
the war, and come to Georgia with Major 
Toombs’ battalion, and when the war ended I 
was a fust-class sinner. It hurts me to think of 
how bad I was, but it did not hurt me then. 
We had a good farm, and a plenty of hands, 
and used to have gay times. The Methodists 
preached in our country sometimes, and there 
was a young woman who had jined ’em that I 
liked mighty well; and I said if all the Metho¬ 
dists is like Polly—that’s my wife now—they 
must be good folks. One day she said to me : 
‘John, I wish you would go over the Neck, next 
Sunday, and hear Brother Easter.’ ‘ Well,’ said I, 


THE LOVE-FEAST. 


85 


‘ Polly, I don’t like tlie Methodists much, except 
you, but I’ll go ef you’ll go with me.’ So we went. 
Polly she went up close, and directly Brother 
Easter come. Well, I don’t know what he said 
after he had fairly begun—I just felt, as he went 
on, I was the worst man in Powhatan, and when 
he warmed up, and told about heaven, his face 
shone like Stephen’s. The folks begin to shout, 
and I looked at Polly. She looked like an angel, 
and directly I heard her say, ‘ Glory, glory! ’ and 
it sounded to me like one of the angels round the 
throne. ‘ She’ll get there, and I won’t,’ I thought. 
There is a chance for me : the Lord says Come, 
I’m a-going, I says, and, bruthem, I went, and 
I got on the track, and, bless the Lord, I am on it 
yet. I married Polly, and we’ve been singing and 
shouting on our way to glory for these thirty 
year. We get happy at home, at the class, in 
the field ; I’m so happy now I could shout a mile 
high—Glory, glory ! ” and the warm-hearted old 
man went around shaking hands, and everybody 
seemed to think he had a right to shout, but 
they seemed to think that Brother Sockwell, who 


86 


BEBRT^S TRIUMPH, 


came after him, did not have that right, for 
Brother Sockwell was a hard man, and while a 
noisy man, his brethren used to wonder how he 
could be a Christian and do as he did. His face 
was pale and sallow, there was a constant frown 
on it, and his voice was harsh and grating. He 
said: 

“ My Brethern : There hain’t any man in this 
house that’s ever been as bad a man as me. I 
have got drunk and gambled and fout and 
cussed and swore, and abused my wife and 
knocked my chilren around, but when I got relig¬ 
ion I got the ginuine kind—I did not get that 
kind that lets people be proud, and stuck up, 
and extravagant. I am afeared the Methodists 
is a-gwine back—they are too fond of fine fixings 
for me, and the preachers has begun to ask for 
too much money. Ef we ever expect to take the 
world, we must be plain. I don’t like this quiet 
kind of religion nohow—I want a religion that’s 
hot, red-hot, and that’s the kind I’ve got. There’s 
no hope-so religion with me—I know I’m a-gwine 
to get to heaven ef I hold out, and I started to 


THE LOVE-FEAST. 


87 


hold out, and I am a-gwine to keep on. I am an 
old-fashioned John Wesley Shoutin’ Methodist, 
who believes in plain ways and plain living— 
hallelujah! ” 

Berry noticed that the brethren did not say 
Hallelujah in response, but Brother Sockwell 
looked as if that was because they were ashamed 
to be old-fashioned Methodists. 

When old Sister Horton rose every eye turned 
anxiously toward the best woman in the settle¬ 
ment, as everybody said she was. 

“My Brethern,” she said, “I am a mighty 
poor and ignorant creetur. I have been, in my 
poor way, tryin’ to follow my blessed Jesus for 
nigh on to thirty years. I was living in Virginny 
when Brother Shadford came thar, just before 
the Revolution War. We had powerful times in 
old Brunswick. I had been a-tr^dn’ to live as 
right as I knowed, and I used to go to hear Par¬ 
son Webb, and read my pra’rs, but when Brother 
Shadford told us about a religion that could 
make folks happy, I said. That’s just what I wants. 
I wasn’t long a-getting it, and I’ve got it yet. I 


88 


BERRT^S TRIUMPH. 


have passed through deep waters and fiery trials, 
but the Lord has been with me till now, and 
he’ll be with me to the end. I never could 
shout—I reckon I hain’t good enough—but I’m 
mighty happy in the Lord. I am getting old 
now—I’m living on borrowed time ; my old man 
has gone over the river, and most of my children 
is gone. The rest of ’em is on the way, and I 
am gwine to slip away, some day, and you’ll all 
know where I am gone to when you don’t see 
me here no more.” 

If Aunt Horton couldn’t shout, she made the 
others do so, and there was a noisy time. Thus 
the meeting went on for just an hour and a half, 
when Brother Myers closed it, according to the 
discipline. 

There were a few minutes* intermission and 
then preaching began. The elder had preached 
the law on Saturday, but he preached the gos¬ 
pel in its fulness on Sunday. Berry listened 
eagerly. Was it true that Jesus loved him, bad 
as he was ? Was it true He paid his debt ? Was it 
true that He could and would save him that day? 


THE LOVE-FEAST. 


89 


and that he had only to believe in His love? 
The simple-hearted boy could not see how one 
could doubt God’s word, and so he said in his 
fervent heart, “ I take Jesus to be my Saviour, I 
will give my life to Him,” and was calmly, sweet¬ 
ly at rest in that faith. Brother Tarpley said, 
“ If there are any who want to join Society on 
probation, let them come forward while we sing, 
‘ A charge to keep I have.’ ” 

Berry rose from his mother’s side, and gave 
his hand to the preacher, and gave his little life 
to God and God’s Church. Was Berry con¬ 
verted? Yes, as certainly as Lydia was, and 
as quietly converted as any boy or girl will be 
who will give the whole love and the whole life 
to the God who has loved them so. 

Brother Sockwell said about the meeting, it 
was mighty dry. The Methodists are a fallen 
people, nobody joined but one little red-headed 
boy “what didn’t know what he was a-doing.” 
But old Sister Horton took the boy in her old 
arms and said, “ God bless you. Berry; I knowed 
your pappy and grand-pappy, and know you are 


90 


BERRT^S TRIUMPH. 


a gwine to walk in their ways. I am a gwine to 
pray for you every day,” and Berry felt like he 
was very safe, with Uncle Marks and Aunt Hor¬ 
ton and his good mother praying for him. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE SCHOOL. 

EERY was very liappy in his new ex¬ 
perience. It was a very quiet one. 
He saw Jesus, as he had never 
seen Him before, and trusting 
llim as a Saviour, he found a warmer love for 
Him burning in his heart. Why did not every¬ 
body trust Him, and love Him. Surely if people 
knew how easy it was to get to heaven, they 
would not be lost. But could it be religion 
which he had ? He could not see any great change 
in his feelings. He had not had those dark 
hours, he had not had those joyous moments. 
He had not shouted. He could not shout. 
Maybe, after all, a little boy could not be a 
Christian, but yet he knew he could love God, 
and do right, and this he would do. 

Mingo was very glad his little Pick had 








92 


BERRT^S TRIUMPH, 


“joined the Methody,” as he called then5. It 
must be confessed that Mingo was somewhat of 
a bigot, and believed no one was exactly right 
but the “ Methodys,” and he hailed every acces¬ 
sion to their ranks with great joy. He and 
Berry worked very faithfully during the spring 
toward midsummer, and things began to look 
bright around the widow’s home. The oats 
were cut and gave a good harvest. The sow and 
her brood of fine pigs had good range in the 
woods and the oat patch. The cow and the 
calf were flourishing, and the little chickens, 
despite the hawks and minks and polecats, in¬ 
creased rapidly. The corn had not suffered for 
rain, and the flax and cotton patches were both 
flourishing. The widow’s heart was full of 
thankfulness, and her prayers for her daily bread 
were mingled with praises that she had it. 

They were sitting under the shade of the 
morning-glory vine, which grew over a rustic 
arbor at the door of the cottage, late one after¬ 
noon. The work was done and Mingo had 
gone home. Mary seemed very serious and 


THE SCHOOL, 


93 


thoughtfuL Berry was looking anxiously in lier 
face. 

“ Mammie,” he said, “ what is the matter with 
you ? is you sick ? you look so glum and solemn, 
I am afraid you hain’t well.” 

** No, Berry; thank the Lord, your mammie 
hain’t sick ; but I am thinking about your gwine 
to school. Mr. Egan is a gwine to take up 
school at the cross-roads next Monday, and you 
ought to go, but I hain’t got no money to pay 
for your schoolin’, and that’s what’s a troublin’ 
me. Thank the Lord, we’ve got a plenty to eat, 
and likely to have enough ; the crop is mighty 
promisin’; but how am I gwine to get the money 
to school you and Jennie, I can’t see. Now if 
I had any lamin’ myself I might teach you, 
but I hain’t, and it hurts me to think that my 
children can’t have no chance to get an eddica- 
tion.” 

“ Mammie, didn’t you read in the Testament 
the other day that God said ef we loved Him all 
things should work for our good, and I know 
you love Him, Mammie, and ef its best for me to 


94 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


go to school I am a gwine, and if it ain’t I don’t 
want to go.” 

They had but ceased talking when a stranger 
came to the door. He was mounted on a poor 
old horse who had only one eye, and whose 
bones were very plainly shown, but he had a 
showy bridle and a pair of martingales, and the 
horse was doing his best to fill his place as the 
dignified steed of Professor Egan. 

“ Good avening, Mrs. Wood. I called to see 
you about your two foine children, and I have 
just been up to see Major Toombs, and he says 
that he wants to pay the tuition in me Academy 
of the two, and so you will plaze enter ’em at the 
first session next Monday, and I’ll bid you gude 
avening, ma’am,” and off he rode toward Wash¬ 
ington. 

The widow’s eyes were wet with tears of grati¬ 
tude as the old teacher rode away, and Berry 
said, “ So you see, Mammie, it is just as I told 
you, the Lord will provide.” 

I am sure the little folks who will read this 
book would have been much amused at the sight 


THE SCHOOL. 


95 


of an old field school, in the early days of this 
century. The school-house was of logs. There 
was a great fireplace going all the way across 
the room ; in the middle of this, under the chim¬ 
ney, there was a spot for the fire. There was no 
glass, nor sash, but the window shutters were of 
clapboards. The floor was of puncheons, and 
the backless benches made of split timber, for 
saw-mills were not common, and pine logs were, 
and to split a good pine, and hew it smooth, 
and put legs on it, made a good enough seat for 
a httle Georgian in those times. The desk was 
a long, smoothly-split plank ranging up one side 
of the room, where every child was expected 
to write. There were about thirty in the school, 
and they were of all ages, from a boy of nine¬ 
teen to a white-headed little chap of six. 

It was into this school that Berry and Jennie 
came this July morning of 1808. 

Mr. Patrick Egan, of County Cork, Ireland, 
was a professional teacher. He always spoke of 
himself as Professor Egan from Quid Ireland. 
He had taught, he said, from New York to 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH, 


Gargy, and prided himself especially on his ad¬ 
mirable discipline. 

“The taycher who can controul his scholars 
is the taycher who can make them learn the 
book, and the only way to controul is to use the 
rod.” And on this idea Professor Egan acted 
in managing his school. 

The thirty children who were at the school- 
house were of all classes. The children of the 
wealthy and of the poor met together in the old 
field school, and as they all dressed alike and 
talked alike there was a genuine democracy 
among them. 

Many of them were kinsfolks, and there were 
no strangers among them but Berry and Jennie. 
Berry was an awkward boy, and one would have 
called him dull, and as he stood before the 
teacher that day dressed in a yellow homespun 
suit, awed by the grandeur of the professor, he 
did not make a very comely appearance ; and 
his hesitating answers to questions of the teacher 
made evidently a poor impression upon him. 
But Jennie was given her paddle with her letters 


THE SCHOOL. 


97 


pasted on it, and Berry was put in Dillworth 
Spelling Book and the New York Header, and 
school fairly begun. The children were all re¬ 
quired to study aloud, and if one stopped the 
teacher stood ready to touch him up. It was a 
babel of sounds, which was only suspended 
when the class was called to recite. They were 
nearly all in the same class, except the beginners 
and a few who were in grammar, which Pro¬ 
fessor Egan prided himself on being able to 
teach—a rare accomplishment with the old field 
school-teachers of that day. There was good be¬ 
havior the first day, and Professor Egan was as 
genial as sunshine. Berry and his little sister 
knew no one, and when the recess came they 
stole away by themselves and ate their frugal 
dinner, and then he tried to teach little Jen¬ 
nie her A B C’s. He was not the best teacher, 
but he was the most patient. “Now, sis, look 
at that straight letter, that’s /, and now this one 
here is U. Now what’s this straight one?” 
“That’s you.” “No it aint, it is I.” “Well, 
bud, didn’t I say it was you?” “Yes, but I 
7 


98 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


say it is I. Not me, but I. And now, what’s ' 
this one that looks like an ox yoke?” “That’s 
me.” “No, dear, it hain’t, that’s you.” “Well, 
didn’t I say it was me?” The cry for books 
came, and they all went into the school-room, 
and it was late before they reached home, for 
school was out at six and the' cross-roads was three 
miles from the home of Berry and Jennie. Poor 
little Jennie ! she had a hard time to learn those 
mysterious characters, and Berry was soon put 
to it to learn the long line of words in his spell¬ 
ing lesson. But he was very studious, and for 
a week he gave the professor no reason for a 
cross word. 

Alas for poor Patrick 1 he was too fond of a 
“wee drop of the creetur,” as he called the corn 
whiskey they made too freely and drank too 
freely in those days, and on Saturday, when his 
school was out for the week, he rode to Wash¬ 
ington, where he drank too much, and all day 
Sunday he spent in getting over his debauch. 
On Monday he was in no good humor. The 
half insane always have unaccountable dislikes. 


THE SCHOOL. 


99 


and Patrick had taken a great antipathy to Berry. 
Why, he could not tell, but he had made up in 
his mind to give Berry a sound drubbing as soon 
as he had a good chance. The half drunken, 
half sick teacher did not go far for a chance this 
Monday morning. 

“ Ye spalpeens,” he said to the school, “ I 
see it’s o’ no use for me to be a gintleman with 
such a set of blackguards as ye are, and I am go- 
in’ to turn over a whole buke of new leaves. I 
am going to thrash you, right and left, till I git 
some gude out of ye. Do ye hear — Berry 
Woods’ spelling class come up here.” 

Now there was a very large girl in the school, 
named Amy Jones. She was the largest girl in 
school but not the oldest, and her size was the 
cause of much merriment to the children. 

“ Spell beegamy, Berry.” 

The tone was so stern and the teacher looked 
so angry that BeiTy failed to notice how the 
Irishman called the word, but he spelt and pro¬ 
nounced it in a loud voice B-i-g A-m-y—Big 
Amy. 


100 


BERRY’8 TRIUMPH, 


The girl turned suddenly and said : 

What do want with me ? ” 

It was involuntary, and the school burst into a 
roar of laughter. 

“ What do ye all mane ; have you gone crazy 
to laugh in this Academy? I’ll tache you how to 
spell, sir, and pronounce too,” and he took a long 
hickory switch and laid in savagely on Benny’s 
shoulders. 

Poor Berry, he had given no conscious cause 
for offence, and now to be publicly disgraced was 
too bad, but he took the blows, drove back his 
tears, and went on with his studies. 

There is no man as unforgiving as the man 
who does another a WTong, and the Irish teacher 
was now at all times anxious to punish Berry, 
and the poor boy bore it bravely for mammie’s 
sake.* 

But this was not his only trial. His poor lit¬ 
tle sister suffered so much to see how brutally 

* If any one shall see a resemblance between this pict¬ 
ure and one in the Dukesboro tales, he sees what I saw 
before him. 


THE SCHOOL. 


101 


her brother was beaten, that Berry cared more 
for her than for himself. 

Every day, on some plea or other, Pat Egan, 
the Irish schoolmaster, was sure to whip Berry 
Wood. The boy never whimpered nor struck 
back, but took the blows as meekly as if the 
blood of Dick Wood was not in his veins, and he 
told little Sis, as he called Jennie, she was not 
to let mammie know. But Pat Egan was not to 
escape the doom of tyrants, and it came in a way 
he looked not for it. 

Berry has done his best to improve in his few 
studies and was learning to read pretty well and 
could almost write his name in little letters, but 
I shall not give my young readers a full view of 
these days unless we take a peep at the cross¬ 
roads and school when it was at work. The 
ABC Darions, as they were called, had to be 
taught one by one. Then came the class of lit¬ 
tle fellows who could spell in the book “ a-b— 
ab,” then they spelt out of the book, and then 
the readers read a chapter in the Testament, and 
immediately after recess the copybook of fools- 


103 


BERRY^S TRIUMPH. 


cap paper was brought out and the teacher made 
and mended the quill pens. They began to 
write by making straight marks, then they 
crooked them, and after a long time the little 
ones began to write with small letters. Ah! 
well I remember those dreary days, and that 
short, stout switch of good Miss Hayes, when 
the copybook was blotted or the letters were 
out of plumb. 

Berry had a hard time at school, but Pat Egan 
was not his only persecutor. Bud Phillips was 
one of those boys whom we sometimes see who 
was mean for the sake of meanness, and he was 
always laughing at poor Berry and his little sis¬ 
ter. He taunted him with his poverty. He 
ridiculed his little sister’s homely dress. He 
told him he was a little sneak, and a hypocrite, 
and a coward. Why did he hate him ? I de¬ 
clare I cannot tell, I can only say I have known 
boys and men just like Bud was. Berry was not 
afraid of Bud Phillips, nor of any other boy in 
that school, but he was afraid of doing wrong, 
and he asked the good Lord to help him to bear 













































































































































































104 


BERRY^S TRIUMPH. 


these things, and He did. You will find a great 
deal said these days about goody-goody boys, by 
which, I think, the people mean boys who don’t 
fight and lie and do wicked things ; but while I 
want every boy to be brave, I don’t think one 
needs to be a bully to be brave, or even to re¬ 
sent everything. They had been at school but 
a day or two when little Mary Crutchfield, a 
girl twelve years of age, the beauty of the school, 
and whose father was one of the richest of the 
patrons, took little Jennie under her care. Bud 
Phillips lived near them and they all came to 
school together. Molly was unsparing in her 
censures of Bud Phillips’ meanness to Berry 
Wood. She did wish Berry would fight him, 
that was the only thing she did not like about 
Berry. He would not fight, and that was a great 
thing in those days. Dick Strange, her father’s 
neighbor,. had a large pack of hounds, and a 
fierce bull-dog, of which she was very much 
afraid. The bull-dog ran in the yard behind a 
picket fence, and Bud Phillips took delight in 
teasing him. Molly, as Mary was called, en- 


THE SCHOOL. 


105 


treated him to let the dog alone, but in every 
way he tried to anger him. Berry went the 
same way from school with Bud. 

One afternoon, as Molly and Jennie came near 
the gate. Bud, who had gone beyond them, be¬ 
gan to infuriate the dog, who rushed angrily at 
the fence. 

“ Please don’t. Bud ; he’ll get out.” 

“ Much do I care if he does,” said the boy. 

Vain boast! for the dog rushed upon the 
gate, and it flew open, and with angry bark he 
rushed at his enemy. Molly was right in the 
dog’s way, in a moment he would be upon her, 
but Berry was just behind the gate, and as the 
dog passed him he caught his chain and block. 

“Bun, Mollie,” he cried; “run, Jennie, shut 
the gate ; run. Bud! ” 

It was hardly needful to tell Bud to run, for 
he was already on the limb of a tree, and Berry 
was left alone with the angry dog. The dog 
rushed angrily on after Bud Phillips, but Berry’s 
little arms were strong, and he had the chain and 
block in his hand and retarded him. He knew 


106 


BERRY’S TRIUMPH. 


if he could only keep the dog at the end of the 
chain he was safe, and he saw that the angry 
brute was determined to catch Bud. He dared 
not turn him loose, but he wisely let him pursue 
the boy, who he saw was safe, and then dexter¬ 
ously threw the block and chain over a root and 
the dog was caught. It was well for him that 
the block caught in a forked root, but, as a good 
Providence ordered it, it did. 

Dick Strange came out of his house, with his 
man Bob with him. The man took the dog, who 
looked at Bud Phillips with an angry growl, and 
carried him to his kennel. 

“ Bud Phillips,” said Captain Strange, “ come 
down from that tree. You have been worrying 
me and that dog till I can’t stand it any longer, 
and I am going to give you what your daddy 
has not given you enough of. Get out of that 
tree, I say,” and the whining boy came down 
begging for mercy, but the angry captain laid 
his horsewhip mercilessly over his shoulder till 
the boy was-thoroughly punished. “Now tell 
your daddy if he don’t like that he can come 


THE SCHOOL. 


107 


and see me.” So he did, and he said, Dick, I 
thank you for the walloping you give Bud, and 
if he ever does it agin, give him twice as 
much.” 

Molly Crutchfield said, when she came home. 
Pa, Berry ain’t no coward, he is the bravest boy 
I ever saw, and I tell you he ain’t half as ugly as 
I used to think he was,” and when she told the 
story they all agreed with her. “Pa,” added 
the little maid, “what makes Mr. Egan treat 
Berry so mean ? He is a mean old thing, any 
how, and whips everybody when he can get a 
chance, but Berry has been beat and beat and 
beat and he don’t do nothing. Yesterday I 
heard him talking to little Jennie. She was cry¬ 
ing about it like her heart would break, and said 
she was a going to tell her ma, but Berry, he 
begged her not to do it, cause he said Major 
Toombs was paying for his schoolin’, and his 
mother was so anxious for him to go to school 
and he said, * Sis, buddy don’t mind it, and you 
mustn’t.* I tell you, pa. Berry Wood is the best- 
est Christian I ever seen, if he ain’t but a boy; 


108 


BEERY'S TRIUMPH. 


and if I was as big as buddy, Pat Egan shouldn’t 
whip Beiry another time or he’d have to whip 
me, and I know he couldn’t do that.” 

The little girl’s cheek was glowing. She felt 
the cruel injustice before, but now that Berry 
had shown his courage for her it burned in her 
very heart. 

“Well, Moll,” said John, “that’s jist what 
buddy’s made up his mind to do. I’m a going 
to stop that, or run old Pat Egan out of Wilkes 
County. John Crutchfield ain’t the boy to sit 
still and take everything, and if I hadn’t joined 
Society I’d knocked his old head off before this, 
but Society or no Society, he shan’t beat Berry 
Wood any more, if I can help it.” 

Now, my little readers must remember John 
was born just after the Be volution, and in those 
days the boy who was afraid of anything was 
the scorn of the neighborhood. 

So the next morning Pat Egan made ready 
for his usual exercise. He had heard of the 
affair at Strange’s and of Bud’s horse-whipping, 
and he determined to bring Berry in to avoid 


THE SCHOOL. 


109 


the censure which his past cruelty might call 
out. 

The school had but begun, when he said, in 
no good humor: 

“Berry Wood, Bud Phillips, come up here. 
So you’ve been a botherin’ the neighbors, have 
ye, and making it nadeful that a gintleman shall 
horsewhip one of me students. Now, Bud Phil¬ 
lips, ye got just what ye desarved, but I am 
going to give the same midicin to this obstreper¬ 
ous buoy, that is always bringing disgrace on 
this Academy. Off with your coat, sir.” 

“No, Berry, you keep your coat on. Mr. 
Egan, Berry Wood ain’t done nothing, and he 
shan’t be whipped.” 

The school looked on with surprise as John 
Crutchfield got up from his chair, for being one 
of the big scholars, John had a chair of his own. 
John was full six feet high and weighed one 
hundred and seventy-five pounds, and the dried- 
up little Irishman looked at his size with real 
anxiety. But if Patrick was not strong he was 
plucky, and he said : 


110 


BERRY’S TRIUMPH. 


“John Crutchfield, you are a mutineer, sur. 
You lave this Academy. As sure as me name is 
Pat Egan I am going to give this spalpeen a 
sound thrashing.” 

“But you ain’t,” said John. 

The Irishman raised his switch and like a wild¬ 
cat John pounced upon him. He tore his 
switch from his hand, threw him on the floor 
and then calling to Berry said : 

“Now, Berry, take that switch and give the 
old heathen what he needs.” 

“No, John, let Mr. Egan up. My pap told 
me never to do a mean thing, and it will be rale 
mean for me to hit an old man when he’s down.” 

“ Well, I’ll let you go, Pat Egan, and I’ll go 
too, and if pappy and Major Toombs can have 
any say, so you’ll go from here purty soon. I 
wouldn’t be taught grammar by no sich an’ old 
Tory as you are, for I know you was a Tory, you 
are too mean to be a Whig ; but if you lay your 
hand on Berry Wood, I’m a gwine to pay the 
debt with interest.” 

“ I’ll hav the law on ye,” muttered old Egan, 


TBE SCHOOL. 


Ill 


as he rose from the dusty floor. He knew his 
day of glory was gone, and he left the school- 
house that evening forever. 

Now I am sure that many who read these 
pages will think I give too great prominence to 
these acts of violence, and am a little too tolerant 
to fighting boys and plucky girls, but my readers 
must remember that seven years of hard combat 
with British and Tories, and years of battle with 
Indians, and a constant warfare with wolves, 
wild-cats, and panthers, had brought up a race of 
men and boys who, like the knights of old time, 
settled most questions by the might of the strong 
arm. Not that I would have this brought back 
again, for we have other ways of fighting than 
by the blow of a brave arm, and we are little in 
danger from men like Pat Egan as long as 
school-boards rule. Our perils come otherward 
than from a teacher’s tyranny. If any one should 
say Berry was an impossible boy, I think I could 
find his counterpart and give his name. The 
grace of God and a good mother can do much 
even for a hot-tempered boy like Berry was. 


CHAPTEE XL 

THE NEW TEACHER AND THE NEW LIFE. 

ROFESSOK EGAN, from County 
Cork, who had whipped the boys 
from “New York to Gargy,” had 
never had a case of open rebellion 
before which he had not put down, and now in 
his ould age, for the sake of a poor red-headed 
pauper, was he to be publicly disgraced ? He 
would take the law on the rebel. 

It was Friday when John Crutchfield made the 
assault, so that nothing prevented his weekly 
trip to Washington. His first visit was to his 
own countryman, Dennis Callahan’s grocery, 
where Pat drank a full glass of the “ critter,” 
as he called it, and then he went over to Major 
Walton’s law office. 

“Major Walton,” he said, “I am Professor 
Egan, from County Cork, in ould Ireland. I am 
a graduate of Meath College, sur, and am a tay- 








THE NEW TEACHER 


113 


clier. I’ve taught boys from New York to Gargy, 
and have always had gude discipline ; I come to 
this blissid county of Wilkes on strong solicita¬ 
tion, sur, and took charge of the Cross-Koads 
Academy, sur, and I am the victim, sur, of a con¬ 
spiracy, a rebellion, a mutiny, sur, and if there is 
any law in this blissid land I want that law, sur, 
on John Crutchfield.” 

“ Oh, my old friend Squire Crutchfield; has 
he been guilty of conspiracy, mutiny, and re¬ 
bellion?” 

No, sur, it was not the square. I could have 
stud it if it had bin ; it was his spalpeen of a 
son, bad luck to him. I don’t want him to be 
put into the state prison, sur, for I am a marci- 
ful man, but he must be punished, sur, if there 
is a law in Wilkes.” 

“Well, Professor, I am afraid I can’t take 
your case. I could only make a mild case of 
holding a teacher.” 

“ Holding a taycher, sur ? a mild case ? What’s 
the land coming to when a taycher can be hilt. 
I can’t stond it. I won’t, if the law will not do 
8 


114 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


me justice, I will mount my stade and cross the 
Savannah Eiver, and Wilkes County shall never 
see me face again. But as ye will not take me 
case, I’ll bid ye gude day.” And he went back 
to Dennis. 

“Oh, Dennis, my man, in ould Ireland we 
could have some roights. Here even a taycher 
has none. Give me another glass, Dennis dear.” 

Poor old Patrick! As Thomas Grant and John 
Crutchfield rode out of the village that evening, 
they saw the “stade” grazing in a field near 
Dennis Callahan’s grocery, and Pat Egan lying 
under a tree fast asleep. 

“Tut, tut, Brother Grant, thars our teacher. 
I wanted him because they said he was good 
to keep order, but we can’t stand that; that’s 
four times in four weeks he has been drunk. 
But where are we to get a teacher from ? ” 

“I think I can supply you. My wife’s nephew 
has been studying at Davidson College, North 
Carolina, and he has come to Georgia for his 
health. I think we can get him. He has just 
come, and is a fine young fellow.” 


THE NEW TEACHER. 


115 


“ Well, see him, and tell him to be at the cross¬ 
roads Monday, and I’ll take the responsibility of 
giving him the place.” 

So Mr. Thomas Lacy took the school. The 
children came on Monday, but Pat did not come, 
and Mr. Lacy came riding up at school-time and 
called them in. He said to them: 

I have just come to Wilkes, and my relative 
says you are without a teacher, and I am going 
to teach you for a few months. I don’t expect 
to be harsh, but intend to be firm, and I hope 
you will not give me any trouble. I shall like 
you all, and I want you to like me. You can 
now go to your books.” 

The teacher soon changed the whole order of 
things, and began to introduce new studies. He 
soon saw Berry was no ordinary boy, and when he 
put him in the Federal Calculator he found him 
a remarkable arithmetician. He was so gentle 
and so well-behaved that the teacher became 
greatly attached to him.* He saw he was so 
anxious to learn that he put him in a class by him- 


* Dukesboro*. 


116 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


self, and in the six months Berry was at school he 
made a really surprising advance. He learned 
to write, and he began to catch some glimpses 
of the wide world beyond his humble home. 

The first letter Berry wrote was to his Uncle 
Marks. I give it pretty much as Berry wrote 
it. 

“ Mr. John Marks, Broad Kiver : 

“Deer Uncle Marks, —We is al wel, and i 
hope these few lines wil find you injoy in the 
same blessin, i am gwine to schule, the teacher 
is Mr. Lacy, he is a mighty good man, i have 
lerned to rite a leetle, i send Ant Marks a heep 
of lov. Tel hur to pray for us. Your frend, 

“Asbury Wood.” 

Little Jennie made good progress, and when 
the winter holidays came Berry had a new life, 
for Mr. Lacy had given him some books, and 
Berry had found the joys of reading. They were 
the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” “Weems’ Life of 
Marion,” and the “Life of Franklin.” 

He was busy all his Saturdays, and with Mingo’s 


THE NEW TEACHER. 


117 


help the crop was gathered, and the barns were 
full. 

Mingo had sowed a little patch in wheat and 
in rye, and Jennie and Dick and Berry together 
had picked out the acre they had in cotton, and 
the great spinning-wheel hummed with a merry 
song as the widow walked to and fro spinning 
both warp and filling for the homespun which she 
wove. The Lord helps those who help themselves, 
and I have never seen any man or woman who 
trusted in God and did the best that could be 
done forsaken, and Mary Wood’s heart sung with 
gratitude for God’s great mercy toward her. 

Berry Wood was a Christian boy, but he was a 
boy, and it was no easy matter for him to bear 
the trials to which he had been subjected. It 
was hard for him to keep hatred to the old 
teacher out of his heart, and he felt more than 
once that but for Jennie and his mammie, and 
the Society, he would just like to get his hands 
on Bud Phillips for a little while, but he prayed 
against all, and God helped him. He trusted in 
Jesus, and was helped. I am afraid Berry was a 


118 


BERET'S TRIUMPH. 


little vain. I have too often seen how we in 
avoiding one evil rush on another to suppose that 
Berry could be made a hero of by his friends, 
and could be praised so by Mr. Lacy, the teacher, 
without having a little too good an opinion of 
himself. I think sometimes he was a little im¬ 
patient, and perhaps not as deferential to his 
mother as he ought to have been, though he 
loved her so much. There are few o4 us who 
have gray heads now who do not look back and 
regret that we did not honor in manner as well 
as we loved in reality those who gave us birth. 
But that November evening, as they sat by the 
bright fire of the widow’s hearth, Mary Wood 
looked at her boy and thought of the death-scene 
in the Elbert cabin, and of what the boy had 
been since, and while the tears came into her 
eyes, she looked to God, and blessed Him for 
giving her such a child. Do you suppose your 
mother has done that for you ? 


CHAPTER XII. 


A BOY’S CHAPTER ABOUT HUNTING. 

YS love to hunt. I hardly know 
why, but they do. I have a pointer 
dog named Jumbo. He never was 
with any other pointer, and never 
hunted a quail in his life, but he runs after 
birds, and little chickens, and even butterflies, 
and that’s the way with boys. Berry was no ex¬ 
ception to this rule. He dearly loved the 
woods. Squirrels were very common, and there 
were many in the woods near his mother’s cabin, 
and Berry could handle Old Betsy well. It did 
not take much money to buy the powder and 
lead needed for an old-time rifle, and he was 
able to bring down many a squirrel; and more 
than one large chicken-hawk that was casting 
longing eyes on the chickens of the yard fell 
fluttering to the ground from a bullet from the 










120 


BEERY’S TRIUMPH. 


boy’s rifle. He took little Jennie with him 
sometimes, and sometimes went alone, and some¬ 
times Mary shut the door of the cabin and 
walked with him on his tramp. Our old friend. 
Daddy Mingo, was, now that the crop was laid 
and gathered in, only occasionally at the cabin, 
but he still kept an oversight of things. The 
truth was, Mingo had got too old to oversee any¬ 
body, and yet he was so fixed in the habit of 
overseeing that he could hardly get along with¬ 
out it, and so Pick and himself formed a very 
agreeable force. Mingo was a mighty hunter, 
and had a famous possum and coon dog named 
Bose. He came one day to the widow’s after 
Berry’s school was out, and the frost had fallen 
on the trees, and the persimmon plums hung 
in rich luxuriance from the trees. 

“Pick, would e lik to hunt e possum?” 

“Yes, yes. Daddy Mingo, ever so much.” 

“Well, you get a big pile fat lightard, and we 
get a fine fellow for sure to-night. I know e 
been atter dem simmons down by the corn¬ 
field, and if e do, Bose he fine ’im for true.” 


A BOY^S CHAPTER ABOUT HUNTING. 121 


So Berry got up the light wood, and as John 
Crutchfield was going by he asked him over and 
told him to bring Daniel Grant. They were 



big boys, and Berry, like all little fellows, liked 
their company. So they came. The widow 
gave them a good supper and then they lit their 
torches and went to the woods. Bose was in 






122 


BEREY’S TRIUMPH, 


fine plight. It was not long before his bark 
was heard. “Dar’s a possum dar for true—Bose 
neber lies.” 

The tree was reached; it was a persimmon, 
and on a fork of it lay a large opossum. 

“How are we going to get him?” said 
Berry. 

“Well, Ill show you,” said John; “I’ve shuck 
many a possum out of a simmon tree before 
this,” and he threw his coat off and swung him¬ 
self up by his arms into the bushy tree. “Hand 
me a pole. Berry ; I see him. He’s away up in 
the crotch; look out, there he comes; ” and 
down with a leap he came on to the ground. 

Bose was looking for him, and he soon had 
him at his feet. Berry started to pick him up, 
when Uncle Mingo—“Ha, Pick, better let dat 
possum alone. He no ded; you tek he tail and 
he bite you true. You neber know possum ded 
till you eat ’em.” 

“Here, Uncle Mingo, I fixed the stick,” said 
Daniel, and Mingo put the possum’s tail in a 
split hickory pole which was only opened wide 


A BOT^S CHAPTER ABOUT HUNTING. 123 


enough to hold it and it closed upon it at once 
with a close clamp, and they were off again. 
Directly Bose treed another. 

Where is he ? I can’t see him,” said John, 
after some search. 

‘‘Nor me neither,” said Daniel. 

“ I know he’s dar. Bose neber tell no lie; 
he’s right up dat tree, for sure.” 

The light wood torches were made brighter, 
and John climbed the black haw, where, at last, 
on the topmost limb, he found the possum. He 
shook the tree, but the possum held to his place. 
He pushed him loose with his pole, but he took 
a lower limb. At last, driven from point to 
point, the possum wrapped his tail around the 
limb and hung suspended; but a blow from 
John’s pole caused him to let go, and down he 
came. They caught another, and then, about 
12 o’clock, got back to the cabin. The widow 
had lived too long on the frontier not to know 
what a savory dish a fat possum and sweet pota¬ 
toes made, so she said: “Now, boys, come over 
to-morrow, and. Uncle Mingo, you be sure to 


124 


BERRT^S TRIUMPH. 


come, and I’ll give you a possum dinner, and 
we’ll have some good simmon beer.” 

It was a royal dinner. The days of great 
roasts, and terrapin stews, and French cooking 
are not, to my taste, like those old days. Del- 
monico could not furnish such a feast as Mary 
Wood’s fat possum and sweet potatoes and sim¬ 
mon beer. I suppose my little friends never 
drank any persimmon beer, and I am afraid they 
never will; but the harmless beverage was one 
of the joys of my childhood, as it was of Berry’s. 

The boys came over, and Uncle Mingo came 
with them, and they had a royal feast. 

I suppose most of my little readers never saw 
an opossum, as these queer little pigs are called, 
but in those days he was quite a common in¬ 
habitant of the forests, and paid sometimes visits 
to the house ; but save that he made a raid on 
the corn-fields sometimes, he was rather harm¬ 
less. It was the coon which gave the most trouble, 
and we must get a view of a coon-hunt, when 
John Crutchfield and Daniel Grant get it up, 
which they will some time. 


CHAPTER XIIL 


BRIGHT DAYS. 

were few happier homes in 
:es than the Widow Wood’s, 
shadow had fallen, and did not 
o, but the light of the Lord 
was on the good woman’s home. 

The harvest had been unusually good. She had 
made on her twenty acres of corn nearly five 
hundred bushels, her oats gave her over one 
hundred and fifty bushels, and her cotton had 
given her over one thousand pounds of seed-cot¬ 
ton, which was a three-hundred-pound bale of 
lint. She had six fat pigs, her cow was giving 
her abundant supplies of milk and butter, the 
yard was full of chickens, and there was a dozen 
turkeys, and even a flock of geese. 

Surely God had provided richly for her and 
her orphan babes. The major had a gin, and he 









126 


BERRT^S TRIUMPH. 


ginned her cotton, and hauled it on his own 
wagon to market, and sold it for one hundred 
dollars. He bought a full supply of sugar, salt, 
coffee, and a little five-gallon keg of molasses, and 
then brought her back sixty dollars, which was 
the net money-profit of her first year’s farming. 

When Uncle Marks came down, bringing Polly 
this time, he said : 

“ Well, Mary, I reckon I’ll have to take you 
back to Elbert. You beat me a-farming so far 
I’m ashamed of myself.” 

“ Well, Uncle Marks, I’m mighty thankful, and 
I feel it’s all a-owin’ to the good Lord, and to 
you and to the major; and. Uncle Marks, it hurts 
me to think he’s not a Christian man nuther.” 

“ No, Mary, Gabe Toombs is as good a hearted 
man as ever lived, and I asked him one day why 
he warn’t a Christian. He stopped a while, and 
he said : ‘ John Marks, if everybody in the church 
was like you and Dave Merriwether I think I 
would have been, but I tell you, when I hear 
Jim Sockwell shout so loud, and know how mean 
he treated poor old Mary Davis in a horse-trade. 


BRIGHT DAYS. 


127 


I git so mad I am just obliged to swear a little/ 
But I hope you’ll pray for him, and maybe he 
will come in yet.” 

“ Well, Uncle Marks, now we are a leetle ahead 
and Beriy’s got to go to school, I am thinking 
of hiring a hand to make the crop; Daddy Mingo 
is too old, even if I could get him, and I want 
you to git me one.” 

“ Well, I know where there’s a boy that will 
just suit you.” 

And so on New Year’s Lias came and took 
charge of the farm, and Berry went back to school 
to Mr. Lacy. 

Berry worked every Saturday, and Uncle Mingo 
still seemed to think he was bound to look after 
the widow’s affairs, and came and helped. 

How fast Berry did learn ! Mr. Lacy quietly 
corrected his errors, and the boy left off, when 
he thought of it, many an obsolete word that be¬ 
longs only to crackers now. 

He grew rapidly, and when he was in his fif¬ 
teenth year he really looked as though he were 
three years older. 


12& 


BERRY^S TRIUMPH. 


Again the Lord smiled, and again were the 
barns filled. The hire of the man was paid, 
and as Bet was getting a little old, another 
horse was bought. 

“Mammie,” said Berry, “I don’t wan’t to go 
to school next year.” 

“ Why, Berry, what do you mean ? I thought 
you liked to learn.” 

“ Well, so I do ; but I have learned enough 
now to help me to learn more, and I am not 
a-going to school and have you and Jennie 
working in the field to keep me there. I want 
to quit anyhow a year or two, till we get a little 
better ojBf, so I can keep you from having so 
much to do. I’ve been going to school for a 
good part of two years. I’ve been nearly 
through my arithmetic, and I think a boy that’s 
near fifteen years old and has gone that far can go 
further. And then, mammie, Dick and Jennie are 
to be sent, and it’ll take money to send them, 
and I’ve got to help you make it. So, mammie, 
dear, let me stay at home this year.” 

“ Well, so I will if you say so, though I was 


BRIGHT DATS. 


129 


mightily sot on your going agin. Your pappy 
used to say that whatever happened he was a- 
gwine to give his children some chance for an 
eddication, and I am gwine to do it, the Lord 
a-helpin’ me, as he will. Why, there’s Daddy 
Mingo. How d’ye. Daddy?” 

“ Toluble, missa, only toluble ; dese rheumaty 
pains make ole Mingo grunt, missa. Mas’ Major 
say could yer let little Pick go wid de wagon to 
Augusty. ’E say ’e got a leetle rheumaty too, 
and he can’t go, and he promised some man in 
Augusty to send ’im a'load of cotton, an’ ’e say 
he want little Pick to go, ’cause he tink he do 
de work about right.” 

“ Why, certainly, Daddy; we’ll do anything the 
major wants us to do, but Berry he hain’t never 
been any further than Washington ; but ef the 
major says so he is willing, I know, and I let him 
go down to major’s and see him about it.” 

“ All right. Daddy; when ^does he want to 
go ? ” says Berry. 

Well, ’e say you come for see ’im to-morrow, 
and ’e wagon will start Monday.” 


130 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


So Berry went to see the major. 

“ Well, my little Methodist, here you are 1 ” 

“ Yes, sir; Daddy Mingo says you want to see 
me.” 

“Yes. I promised Meals & Calhoun, in Au- 
gusty, to send them a load of cotton, and I can’t 
go myself, and my overseer is gone to Abbeville, 
and I thought maybe I could trust you. You 
will promise me you won’t get drunk, nor sell 
my cotton and run away with the money, eh ? ” 

“Well, if you think I will, you’d better not 
send me.” 

“Well, I will trust you. You will have to 
get some bedclothes, for you will have to camp 
out. The roads are mighty bad, but Mr. Cal¬ 
houn says I must try and get my cotton there, 
and I reckon the team will go through all right; 
and Bill, who drives the steers, is a good steady 
hand, so I reckon you won’t have any trouble. 
You will have to stay all night at Jack Combs’ 
wagon-yard in Augusta, and stay Sunday; then 
Bill knows about it, and he’ll show you where it 
is. You can’t get back veiy well in less than 


BRIGHT DAYS, 


131 


two weets, for you will bring a load for Tom 
Grant, at the store. The team will come by 
early in the morning, and you can get in at 
home.'* 

“TU do my best, major. Good-by.’* And 
BeiTy got ready for a trip to the largest city in 
Upper Georgia. About how he got there, and 
what he saw, I will let him tell himself. 


CHAPTER XIY. 


BERRY’S TRIP TO AUGUSTA. 



UGXJSTA was at that time the only 
city in Upper Georgia. It had 
about five thousand people in it, 
and did a great deal of trade, which 


came to it from all sections of the State, as well 
as from the counties just about it. To go to 
Augusta was the event of a boy’s life, and one 
who has been to China in these days is not so 
great a traveller as the boy who went to Augusta 
in those times. Berry was well aware that he 
must fix up, and so his good mother got him 
his best clothes. His right new suit of yeUow 
jeans, and his new shoes which Tom Lockwood, 
the shoemaker, had just sent home, and even a 
new hat which the hatter in Washington made 
out of good wool, were all called into service, 
since Berry was going to Augusta with a load 





BERRY^S TRIP TO AUGUSTA. 133 


of cotton. He was expected to take two weeks 
for the trip, for it was seventy-five miles there 
and seventy-five back, and the time went slowly 
by to the folks at home. At last little Dick’s 
quick ears caught Bill’s loud voice, and heard 
the louder crack of his whip, and running down 
the road, he met Berry running to meet him. 
The little fellow was so glad to see buddy that 
he cried, and Mary Wood would hardly have ad¬ 
mitted how much she felt her boy’s first absence, 
and how anxious had been her waiting. When 
Beriy had finished his supper his mother said : 

“Well, now. Berry, tell us all about your trip. 
I ’spect you’ve seed a power of sights, hain’t 
you?” 

“Why, yes, mammie,” and the boy spoke in 
the old tongue. “I didn’t know thar was so 
many things in the world. We had a power¬ 
ful time gitting thar, and a powerful time git- 
ting back. You know the roads are mighty 
bad, but we got along pretty well till we got to 
the creek about five miles from Washington. 
Uncle Crutchfield’s wagon was behind our’n ; 


134 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


the mud was up to the hubs, but the steers 
pulled away, when, as we got to the bottom of 
the hill, her chug yfQui the hind wheels in a big 
mud-hole, and thar we was. Uncle Bill got a big 
chunk, and some rocks and a pole, and old Sam 
tuck his steers and the old boss from Uncle 
Cutch’s wagon, and Bill popped his whip, and 
Sam he whipped the boss, and Mr. Williams and 
me prized away, and out we come, and up the hill 
we went. Then we got on pretty well, and at 
night we camped, and I slept pretty well by the 
big log-fire. The next day it was a-raining, but 
we pulled away, and after a while we come to 
White Oak Creek. It looked mighty ugly, but 
old Bill thought we could try it, and in we went. 
After a while old Ball went down over his horns, 
and old Black, you couldn’t see nothing of him 
but his head; but we struck the ground again, 
and got out safe. Well, we went on on til Friday, 
and I got mighty tired, when we camped by the 
Quaker Spring, and next day we druv into 
Augusty. Whoopee! I did not know thar was 
so many houses in the world. They was jist 


BERRY'S TRIP TO AUGUSTA. 135 


one after another, almost as thick as they could 
stand for nigh on to a mile. Old Bill knowed 
whar the store was, and when Mr. Meals came 
out he was mighty clever, and told us to come 
in the store. Mammie, you never saw such a 
store in your life. It was just as full of goods 
as it could stick. There was everything you can 
think of. He asked me a heap of questions, 
and give me a barlow knife to give to buddy, and 
a whole pound of candy for Sis. He said pap¬ 
py used to trade with him, and said pappy was 
a mighty good man. 

“Well, he give us just as much sugar as we could 
eat. You know little Tommie Williams went with 
us, and when Mr. Meals give him a handful of 
sugar, Tommie eat it up quick and said ‘I 
just wish I had as much sugar as I could eat. 
I believe I could eat a barrel full.’ Mr. Meals 
laughed, and he just sot Tommie in a big hogs¬ 
head full of sugar, and Tommie, he eat, and eat, 
like everthing, till at last he stopped. ‘Well 
little man,’ says Mr. Meals, ‘ have you got to the 
bottom ? ’ 


136 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


“ ‘ No, I hain’t quite that fur yit,’ says Tommie, 
‘but I’ve got down where it ain’t good.’ 

“Well, mammie, there was more wagons and 
carts in Augusty, and drunk men and backer 
hogsheads and cotton bags than ever you seen. 
We got our load off at the river. It is a heap 
bigger than Broad or Little river, and thar was 
ever so many flat boats, and some of them they 
said was gwine away to Savannah. But, mammie, 
I am afear’d Augusty is a mighty wicked place. 
In the wagon-yard whar we staid, the men drunk 
liquor and played kerds and cussed and swore, 
so I was really afear’d to stay thar.” 

“ Did my boy forget to pray ? ” 

“No, mammie, I wanted to pray more’n ever 
because I was that fur from home, and I hid in 
the wagon body, and prayed God to take care 
of me and he done it.” 

“Well, where did you go Sunday? ” 

“ Well, thar want but one place whar they had 
preaching, and old Tom and me axed the way to 
the church, and after aU we found it. It was a 
way up almost out of town. It was a powerful big 


BERBY^S TRIP TO AUGUSTA, 137 


church, and had a bell on it, but the bell sounded 
like it was cracked, and there was a lively little 
preacher, they called him, I think, Mr. Porter, 
and he preached a mighty good sermont ; but he 
can’t preach like Brother Kussell, and the folks in 
the church, that is the Methodist folks, they was 
all dressed alike, and just like the folks dress up 
here, but the clothes was finer. But the worldly 
folks they had more big feathers and more great 
big bonnets than I ever seen, and, mammie, most 
ever one of the men had on galluses and what 
they calls pantaloons. There warn’t much shout¬ 
ing. Mr. Sockwell, he shouts ever time we have 
meeting at Grants, but there wer’n’t nobody 
shouted in Augusty but one old woman, and she 
said, ‘ Glory,’ mighty easy. Well, the next day 
we started home and, thank the Lord, I’m here 
once more, and here is Buds Barlow; and, sis, I 
bought you out of my cotton money a new dress, 
and this one I bought for mammie. You know 
I had thirty pounds of cotton of my own, and Mr. 
Meals said it come to five dollars and forty cents, 
and he said your two bags weighed six hundred 


138 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


pounds and come to one hundred and two dollars, 
and after I bought all the things you sent for I 
had sixty dollars left and he give me an order on 
Uncle Grant for it.” 

The simple story of travel to a small city was 
deeply interesting to the widow’s household, and 
henceforth, great as buddy had been in the eyes 
of Jennie and Dick before, he was much greater 
now. He had been all the way to Augusty. 

Berry was now fifteen, and was a sturdy fel¬ 
low, and he began to plan for the future. Uncle 
Lias was married. He belonged to an estate and 
so did his wife, and they had to be hired out, 
and Berry proposed to his mother that they 
should take his wife and three children for the 
victuals and clothes, and thus they would have 
nearly three hands in the crop. The plan was a 
good one, and so Uncle Lias and Berry went to 
work to build a little cabin for the new family. 

In those days when a new house was wanted, 
there were no saw and planing mills close at hand, 
to supply material. But there was an abundance 
of small pine poles, and good board timber, and 


BERRY'S TRIP TO AUGUSTA. 139 


SO Berry and Lias went into the woods to cut 
down .the logs and Lias hewed the plates and 
rived the boards. The major’s saw-mill gave 
them puncheons for a floor, and how do my little 
readers suppose they made the chimney, when 
there were no bricks ? I will try and tell them. 
They made a large box of hewed timbers next to 
the house, and filled it with dirt, then a great 
bed of red clay mortar was made, and pine sticks 
were laid upon each other, as boys make a trap, 
daubed with clay; as they rose from the ground 
the trap was made smaller until the funnel was 
made. If any large stones could be found they 
formed the back of the chimney and hearth. 
The house was covered with boards, and as nails 
were very scarce, great poles weighted down with 
stones held them in their place. So the home 
was fixed for Elias and his family, and they were 
as proud of it as a king of his castle, and Berry 
got ready for his next year’s farming. 


CHAPTER XY. 


m WHICH WE SEE AN OLD TIME CAMP¬ 
MEETING. 



IAS was a good-natured, industrious, 
pious negro, who loved his wife and 
children. His “ old master,” as he 
always called him, was dead, and so 


was his “ old mistus.” He had been well cared 
for while they lived, but now that they were 
dead, he and Mandy, his wife, were hired out at 
public hiring, and often separated. He had told 
Berry of this trouble, and this had been one rea¬ 
son why the thoughtful boy had devised the 
plan which they were now carrying out. Berry 
had a very clear head and Lias was a practical 
farmer, and they settled it that they would clean 
up the canebrake in the creek and deaden the 
branch bottom, and put the canebrake in corn 
and the bottom in peas, and the big field in cot- 








AN OLD TIME CAMP-MEETING. 141 

ton. Berry and Lias should cut the brush and 
little trees and Mandy and the children would 
pile the brush and do the other lighter work. 
So into the thick cane and thicker swamps they 
went. They all worked^ith a will, and by the 
first of March the cane was ready for the firing. If 
my httle readers could have heard that cane pop¬ 
ping they would have thought a regiment of sol¬ 
diers were firing off their guns. The brush was 
burned, and the ploughing was done, and the corn, 
and peas, and cotton were planted, and Lias and 
Berry put in full work with the ploughs, while 
Mandy, and Billy, and Sukie came on with the 
hoes. The good Lord helped the good workers, 
and the showers and the sunshine came as the 
crops needed them, and by the time crops were 
laid by the widow’s heart was gladdened with the 
promise of a large yield. 

The Widow Wood did not know much of 
science or natural law. She knew God and from 
his hand she received all these blessing as his 
gift to her, and her loving heart sent up a con¬ 
stant song of praise. 


142 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


Lias was so glad to have so good a home, that 
he worked as if it was his own crop ; and though 
Mandy scolded and grumbled as if it was her 
bounden duty to do so, yet she kept up with the 
ploughs and was always ready to do what Miss 
Mary said. 

July had come and almost gone. The corn was 
already in full silk and had its last ploughing, 
and the cotton was laid by waiting for the bloom¬ 
ing, and the days two months ahead when the 
picking should commence. A hundred bushels of 
wheat, and a loft full of sheaf oats were in the 
barn, and now the busy workers could rest awhile. 

“ Berry,” said his mother, as they sat in front 
of the cabin door, “ the crop is done made, and 
camp-meeting time is next week; so I’m think¬ 
ing of gwine up to Independence to camp-meet¬ 
ing. Uncle Marks and Uncle Meriwether is 
gwine to tent, and Aunt Polly sent me word to 
be sure and come, and so I believe I’ll jist pack 
up the whole pot and biling of you and go over.” 

“Well, mammie, won’t that be nice. I’ve been 
a thinking of it myself, but I didn’t see how we 


AN OLD TIME CAMP-MEETING. 143 


all could go, and as I had been all the way to 
Augusty, I thought I’d stay at home and let you, 
and Sis, and Dick go.” 

“ No, thar is no reason why you shouldn’t go 
too. You hain’t never bin, and Lias and Mandy 
kin stay and take care of the stock, and so we’ll 
all go. So I’ll get all your things ready and—let 
me see, to-day’s Tchusedy—we’ll go on Friday 
morning.” 

Old Bet, rather the worse for her hard sum¬ 
mer ploughing, but faithful and strong, was 
hitched in the little wagon, and through Wash¬ 
ington and over the hills they went till the camp 
ground was reached. 

My little readers never saw a camp ground of 
the olden time, and I must try and give them a 
view of Old Independence Camp Ground nearly 
eighty years ago. 

There was many a beautiful grove in old 
Wilkes then, and where now a scanty poverty- 
stricken little rivulet makes its way over beds of 
yellow sand, in those days merry brooks went 
dashing over pebbly beds. Near Independence 


144 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


Meeting House there was a grand grove of grand 
old oaks. Enough of them had been cut down 
to open a cleared place in the forest, and seats 
had been made of the trees which had been cut 
down and of puncheons from the saw-mill near 
by. There was a large space on each side of the 
plain boxed-up platform called a stand, and in 
front was an enclosure called the altar. Over all 
the space where the seats were and the altar was, 
was a carpet of wheat-straw. Over all these was 
a shelter of branches of trees, and thus it was 
called an arbor. The tents were made at that 
time of logs, and were very numerous. They 
formed a square around the stand. There were 
no cooking stoves, and the busy cooks plied their 
trade by great log fires in the rear of the tents. 
The preachers had their home in the little 
church near by. There was no boarding tent, 
but everybody who came was most hos23itably 
provided for without charge. 

As the little wagon came up to camp ground 
on Friday afternoon, the travellers joined quite 
a number who were going to camp-meeting. 


AN OLD TIME CAMP-MEETING, 145 


Some in large wagons, some in ox-carts, some on 
horseback, some wagons loaded with household 
stuff to supply some tent-holder’s cabin. At last 
they reached the ground, when, as they asked for 
John Marks’ tent, the old man came out and 
greeted them with hearty cheer. 

“ Here, Polly, here is Mary and the children ; 
come and take ’em in and see if you can git a 
bite for them to eat.” 

“Why, Mary,” said Aunt Polly, “bless your 
heart, how glad I am to see you ; and here’s 
Berry almost a man, and little Jennie is a real 
big gal; and here’s my little Dick. Well, come 
in, come in.” 

The camp-meeting services had not begun. 
After an early supper the little children were 
put to bed, and Aunt Marks and Mary went down 
to hear the elder give his first talk. The elder 
was Lovick Pierce. He was a handsome young 
man, not thirty years of age. He did but little 
more that night than to urge upon the people 
present to be very prayerful and careful; to 

allow nothing light or frivolous about the tents, 
10 


146 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


and to be very careful of their private devotions. 
He said he wanted no foolish excitements. Ke- 
ligious excitements he did want, but none of 
those extravagances he had seen much of lately. 
He hoped all the sensible old-fashioned Metho¬ 
dists would frown them all down. 

The crowd was large even the first night, and 
Brother Sockwell was there, and came in with a 
shout during the closing song. Berry did not 
have too much faith in Brother Sockwell, and 
had rather not have heard him shout, but sup¬ 
posed it had to be because it was camp-meeting. 

The scene was very fascinating to the boy. 
There were a half dozen large stands covered with 
lightwodd knots which shed a brilliant light over 
the ground, while before every tent there was a 
camp fire also of lightwood. The early morning 
service was at eight o’clock, and then the preach¬ 
ing of the elder at eleven o’clock, and then at 
three o’clock and at night. 

If my young readers have read many books, 
they have not failed to find some rather severe 
things said of the old time camp-meetings and 


AN OLD TIME CAMP-MEETING. 147 


their wild excitements, and there never was a 
time when there was more of it than there was 
at this time. I cannot defend many things nor 
explain many more ; but I know, despite it all, 
there was an immense deal of real good done in 
these meetings in the woods; where for a few 
days they did nothing but sing, and pray, and 
preach. 

Berry had gone to the camp-meeting not very 
well satisfied with himself as a Christian. He had 
so many thoughts he feared were wrong. He 
got vexed so easily. He did not want always to 
read his Bible. He did not like to talk in class¬ 
meeting. When they called on him to pray in 
public he was so scared he could not do so, and 
he had never shouted. He intended to get bet¬ 
ter while he was here, and so he was very care¬ 
ful to attend to his private devotions ; but he 
was more and more troubled because he could 
not feel more. He had listened eagerly to the 
preachers, but the preaching gave him little 
comfort. The preachers in those days strove to 
awaken by showing what the law was, and by 


148 


BERRT^S TRIUMPH. 


showing to people their sins. Berry felt that if 
this was God’s law, and he knew it was, he was 
sadly a debtor. Had he ever been converted ? 
If he had been would he not have lived a better 
life ? Poor Berry ; others thought him good, but 
he saw only his faults. The second morning 
after he reached the camp ground he heard a 
sermon which completely upset him. There 
had not been a great deal of excitement and yet 
there had been some religious movement the 
night before. It was the eight o’clock sermon, 
and Uncle Bob Harris and Brother Bob Peacock 
were sitting in front of Brother Marks’ tent and 
were talking together somewhat dolefully. 

‘'Well, Brother Harris, you are not tenting 
this year.” 

“No, Brother Peacock, I don’t feel able to 
stand the expense ; my crop has not been good, 
and times is mighty hard, and then I am afeard 
camp-meetings don’t do no good no how. Tain’t 
like it used to be.” 

“ That’s just what I’ve been a thinking, 
Brother Harris. I tell you the Methodists are 


AN OLD TIME CAMP-MEETING. 149 


not like they used to be. When old Le Roy 
Cole was in Brunswick, in old Virginny, we had 
meetings as was meetings, and it didn’t cost 
nothin’ neither, but now we have to feed I don’t 
know how many folks and nobody gits religion. 
Why, there hain’t bin nobody to the mourners’ 
seat but two little children. Now you know, 
Brother Harris, yourself, that boy of Evans’ what 
went to be prayed for last night didn’t know 
what he was a doin’.” 

“No, Brother Peacock, he didn’t. What 
does a little chap like that know about convic¬ 
tion, and law work, and the pains of hell ? I tell 
you we are makin’ the way to heaven too easy, as 
shure as you are born. I really do think we are 
deceivin’ folks by leadin’ them to think religion 
is sich an easy thing to git. The fact is, I was a 
seeker nigh on to four years, but when I got it, 
I got it. I weren’t none of your still-born Chris¬ 
tians, that I weren’t, and I don’t believe in 
’em.” 

“ Nor me nuther, but thar’s the horn a blow- 
in’, let us go down and hear Brother Thomson. 


150 


BERRT'8 TRIUMPH. 


He’ll give us the old-time gospel, or I’m mightily 
mistaken in him. 

Brother Thomson was a local preacher of fame 
in that section of the country. He was noted 
for his poverty, his humility, and his stern piety. 
He had been a very bad man until he was forty 
years of age, then he was converted. There was 
no mistaking his sincerity. His plain garb, his 
utter indifference to the world’s praise or blame, 
was unaffected. He never laughed: a smile 
rarely lit up his face. He was pitiless in de¬ 
nouncing sin and the sinner ; but when he him¬ 
self was struck by a ruffian, he bore the blow 
meekly and spoke no harsh word in return. He 
saw in the Gospel only a sterner, purer law 
than Moses taught; and he asked no more than 
he gave himself. His sermon was the strongest 
statement of what was involved in loving God 
with all the heart; and now he said in conclu¬ 
sion : Well may the Lord say: ‘ The way is 
narrow and few there be who find it.’ 

“My brethren, the reason why men live so 
blamefully is because they have never been con- 


AN OLD TIME GAMP-MEETINO. 151 

verled. They think they have, but they have 
not. I was brought up in the Church of Eng¬ 
land, I was taught the catechism. I had a good 
mother, I was confirmed, I lived uprightly and 
honestly, I thought I was a good Christian. I 
went on this way till I was almost grown a de¬ 
ceived pharisee. Then I fell into gross sin, and 
down and down I went. I was nigh hell. I was 
awakened. I could not sleep. If I shut my eyes I 
seemed to see the blue sulphur flames of hell. I 
could not eat. My friends thought I was crazy. 
Oh, I was like a pelican in the wilderness. I came 
near to death, and, at last, I was converted. I 
was saved through and through, and I have had 
no use for sin since that time. I have had no 
doubts nor fears. I think if you have them it 
is because you never knew the Lord. Oh, I 
beg you don’t deceive yourselves! Give up 
your false hopes. Seek, seek to know the sor¬ 
rows of hell that you may know the joys of par¬ 
don.’.’ 

Every word the stern old man spoke came 
from his heart. His dark eye flashed. His 


152 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


sepulchral voice rang loud and clear, and each 
word went as an arrow to the heart of Berry. 

The old man evidently believed that all hearts 
must feel as his did. 

The age and the sanctity of the old preacher 
made his sermon more impressive, and Berry de¬ 
cided that he was mistaken, and cast away his 
confidence and counted himself as a condemned 
sinner who had never been converted. He be¬ 
gan to search into his heart, but he found noth¬ 
ing there to help him. He tried to feel, but he 
could not. He began to fear lest he had passed 
his day of grace. For twenty hours he was un- 
happy enough for even Brother Thomson. Berry 
did what you may do some day. He tried to 
review his past and see if he had not been con¬ 
verted, if he had not come the right way into 
the wicket gate of which he read in the “ Pil¬ 
grim,” and the more he tried to go back over the 
past the more miserable he became. 

Thus it went on with the boy. The tide of 
religious feeling rose higher and higher. If I 
were to tell you all that occurred you would 


AN OLD TIME CAMP-MEETINQ. 153 


hardly think it could have been possible. That 
men fell like they were dead. That men who 
had come to the meeting to ridicule would jerk 
like they were in spasms. That women would 
lose their consciousness, and remain like dead 
people lor twelve hours. There was loud cry¬ 
ing, and deep groaning, and joyous shouting. 
Berry’s mother was among the happiest, and she 
and Aunt Polly Marks got happy and shouted 
and shook hands with their brethren and sisters ; 
but poor Berry found no comfort. 

The last night of the meeting came ; the 
young elder was to preach. He said in his ser- 
mbn : “ Do not let others affect your faith. Men 
differ, and experiences differ. You are to come 
to Jesus. It doesn’t matter whether you have 
or haven’t been converted. Come to Jesus now. 
Come like you would have come to Him when 
He was here. Come just as you are. Give up 
your life to Him. Tell Him you will trust Him, 
living or dying, in darkness or light. You must. 
You can. You will believe that He will save you 


now. 


154 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


This was what Berry needed. He went at once 
to the altar, and this was what he said: 

“ 0 Lord, I don’t know whether I’ve got re¬ 
ligion or not. I know I am a sinner anyhow, 
and I know Jesus died for sinners. I know He 
is a good Saviour, and I know you’re a good Fa¬ 
ther, and I am a gwine to trust You, and love 
You, and mind You all the days of my life. 
Now, my dear Father, let me feel what I know ; 
but if I don’t feel it I am a gwine to believe it 
anyhow.” 

A sweet glow passed over his soul, and doubt 
and darkness fled away—and fled away to come 
again no more. 

The family returned on Wednesday to their 
home as happy a group as the blue sky covered. 

Henceforth Berry had two strong props for 
his religion. He said when he was an old man 
that from his boyhood he had been trying, first. 
To obey God in everything ; second. To trust in 
Jesus it mattered not how he felt. I think these 
two principles will make any of us as happy as 
they did Berry. 


CHAPTER XYI. 


BERRY GOES COON-HUNTING. 

time of rest on a farm is never for 
long period, and as for that I find 
irmers have about as much time 
) idle as anybody else, and so 
Berry and Lias had to go into the canebrakes to 
pull fodder. This is rather an uncomfortable 
business, as many of my little readers have long 
since found out; but Berry had not counted on 
a life of ease, and so he manfully kept side by 
side with Lias as they stripped the tall stalks of 
their blades and hung them in little bunches, 
which Mandy and Billy gathered up. Do my 
little readers know that Indian corn is really a 
gigantic grass and the blades of the corn form 
the hay crop of the Southern planter ? It is quite 
an important crop, and much would be the suf¬ 
fering among the horses and mules if their fod- 










156 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


der crop were to fail. This year the widow 
Wood had several high and broad stacks of fod¬ 
der and the peas and the new ground com. 

The cow pea is a kind of bean. It is called a 
cow pea I suppose because the cows find it such 
good food. It is not bad food for little boys and 
girls, and when rice and peas are cooked together 
with bacon, and Hopping John is the result, the 
dish is not to be despised. The cotton which 
you see in great bales in the markets is just the 
covering which' dame nature puts around the 
seed of the cotton plant. The seed in those 
days was used for fertilizing and for food for 
cows. 

The crop year had been a good one and the 
widow found she would have eight right heavy 
bags of cotton to go to Augusta when the major 
sent down his crop, unless she could find a pur¬ 
chaser near home. The corn yield had been large 
and the squirrels were having a good time fora¬ 
ging on the widow’s corn. 

“Mammie,” said Berry, “them squirrels is 
eating our corn, and I’se a gwine to eat some of 


BERRY GOES COON-HUNTING. 157 


them squirr’ls to get even,” and so for some days 
the crack of Berry’s rifle was frequent and every 
crack brought a fat squirrel, but there was one 
foe who gave him more trouble than the squir¬ 
rels and the birds, and that was the coon. The 
sly raccoon came out of the swamp at night and 
made quite an inroad and then he hid away in 
the deep swamp in a hollow tree. 

Berry had been charging the squirrels and 
crows with a theft of which they were not alone 
guilty, when Lias said to him : 

“Mas Berry, de ole coon bein’ a-doin’ dis 
devilment, and if I live I’m a gwine to git Daddy 
Mingo’s Bose dog, he is powerful for coons, and 
we’ll wake ole Zip up ; and Mas Jack Crutchfield 
and Mas Daniel Grant has got some hounds, 
and I’m bound dey’ll be in for a coon hunt, and 
so I will fix up, and we’ll have baked coon for 
dinner for sartin.” 

Daddy Mingo had the “ rhumatiz mighty bad, 
but a good possum hunt or a good coon fight 
helped him powerful,” he said. It made him 
kind of forget his misery. 


158 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH, 


The lightwood was gathered and made ready 
for torches. The boys came over before supper, 
and Daddy Mingo and Bose were on hand. 
About eight o’clock the hunters went down to 
the cornfield, and soon Bose’s bark told that old 
Zip was at work on the corn. The hounds and 
Berry’s big cur and Buddy’s little fice joined in 
the race. The hunters plunged into the creek 
swamp and made their way after the eager dogs, 
until at last the bay of the dogs told that the 
coon was treed. He had taken to a sycamore 
and was high up, but not so high that the torches 
could not shine his eye. 

“ There he is boys,” said Jack, “ away up in 
the crotch. Don’t you see how his eyes shine ? 
Why, there’s two of ’em. Whar’s the axe ? 
Come, Uncle Lias, cut away.” The dogs drew 
off while the axe man struck sturdy blows. 

‘‘ Take care of the dogs. Look out, down she 
comes. Hurrah ! turn ’em loose. Ketch him. Sail 
—hoop, Crawford.” And away they went; Zip 
coon could not keep ahead and he took to the 
creek. Under a root he hid himself when the 


BERRY GOES COON-HUNTINQ. 159 


dogs came dashing up, and into the water they 
went. The coon put his back against the bank and 
snapped and snarled and bit. The hounds dashed 
at him, but soon came howling back badly bitten 
and scratched. Bud’s plucky little Fice came 
near being drowned, but the big battle was be¬ 
tween the coon and Bose. Bose was an old coon 
dog and knew the coon’s tactics, and when the 
coon caught at his nose to hold him under the 
water Bose made a sudden jump and caught him 
by the back of his neck, and drew him to land. 
The other dogs now ingloriously piled them¬ 
selves on the poor corn thief, and, in less time 
than I can tell it. Old Zip coon was limp and 
lifeless. The dogs were driven off, and Lias said 
to Berry, ‘‘ Now, Mas Berry, you’ll have a new cap, 
and we’ll all have coon and taters for dinner.” 

I know that my description of the battle is a 
tame one ; but the fight was a gallant one, none 
the less. The coon was a splendid fellow, and 
his forays on the cornfield since roastin’-ear 
time had fatted him for the pit. Lias was a 
royal hand at a barbecue, and when the second 


160 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


coon was caught the invitation was given to all 
the hunters to join in a dinner of barbecued 
coon the next day. 

The coon shins were stretched on the barn 
door and were to be used to make the two boys 
a cap apiece, and Lias got the “ carcasses,” as he 
called them, ready for a barbecue. The barbe¬ 
cue I have never seen anywhere but in Georgia ; 
but I think it came in with the old English set¬ 
tlers. It is going out of fashion, much to the 
sorrow of the epicure. For, after all, there are 
few more toothsome dishes than a fat young 
coon well barbecued. Lias dug his pit early in 
the morning and had his green hickory wood 
blazing away before daybreak, and when there 
was a fine body of blazing coals two coons well 
prepared were stretched over the pit, and were 
well basted and well cooked for dinner. 

A Georgia home of the humblest people in 
those days gave all that was needful for a good 
dinner, and while the bill of fare is not such as 
you get at a great hotel it was sufficient for the 
healthy appetites of the boys. 


BERRY GOES COON-HUNTING, 161 


Perhaps it might interest you, for confiden¬ 
tially I must confess a fondness for what is writ¬ 
ten about eating, to tell you what they had for 
dinner :—Bacon and collards, corn bread, bis¬ 
cuit, chicken pie, barbecued coon, dried peach 
puffs, dried apples stewed, buttermilk, sweet 
milk, sweet potatoes, turnips and fried squirrels. 

The dear widow had done her best to give 
them a good spread, and all she gave came from 
her own place and cost nothing but the labor of 
their busy hands. 


11 


CHAPTEE XYIL 


THE WIDOW WOOD ENTERS THE SLAVE MARKET 
AND BUYS A SLAVE. 

little readers have heard of slavery, 
and they have heard little good 
said of it, and I am persuaded they 
have heard much that never was 
true. And if they suppose that no good people 
had slaves, and all who had them were cruel to 
them, and that the slaves were never happy and 
never grateful, they are sadly mistaken. I am 
glad for many reasons there is no slavery now, 
and yet I am very doubtful as to whether the 
poor negro is better or happier in many cases 
now than he was then. Some men are much 
worse than their laws, and some men are much 
better than theirs, and thus it was in those old 
days. 

The Widow Wood had never owned a negro. 







WIDOW WOOD BUTS A SLAVE. 163 


nor had her father before her, and she might 
never have owned one if she had not been so 
good a woman. 

Lias was a hireling, and he. was a faithful 
man. I have already said his old ^master 
was dead, and that he was an estate negro. 
The heirs of the estate were in the Natchez 
country on the banks of the Mississippi. Lias 
had been hired out for several years, but the 
time for the winding up of the estate had come, 
and Lias had to go to Natchez or be sold in 
Wilkes. It is useless to deny that in those old 
days it was possible to sell a man away from his 
family, because he was a slave. I blush while I 
write it. I am ashamed of it, as my father was 
before me; but it is just as useless to deny that 
such things, though possible, were not common. 
Lias had found out the fact that he was to go, 
and was in great trouble. 

‘‘Mas Berry,” he said, “I don’t want to take 
to de woods. My old massa never, sens I was 
growed up, laid his hand on my back. I never 
bin a runaway yet, and I don’t want to do it 


164 


BERRY'8 TRIUMPH. 


now; but I don’t see how I kin go to dat 
Natchez, and leave Mandy and de childem. I 
bin to Mas Tom Grant, and axed him to buy 
me; but he say de rules of de Society is agin it, 
and it ^ears like de Lord done forsook me. I 
been a prayin’ mighty hard, but it looks like my 
prars ain’t gwine to keep me from going ; ef Miss 
Mary could jest buy me, I could stay wid her 
and work it out; but I don’t see how she can do 
em. I tink last night when I done praying, I 
heered a voice, saying, ‘ Lias, you just stood still 

the Lord he is a cornin’,’ and sometimes I 
think he is, den I t’ink he ain’t, and I gets 
mightily down.” 

The great tears ran down his black cheeks as 
he spoke, and Berry’s face glowed with indig¬ 
nation at the thought of Lias being taken to 
Natchez. 

As they sat by the light wood fire in the even¬ 
ing, Berry said : 

“Mammie, Lias is got to go to Natchez next 
January, unless somebody will buy him, and I 
am thinking maybe we could buy him, and pay 


WIDOW WOOD BUYS A SLAVE. 1C5 


part of what he cost with our cotton crap, and 
maybe next year we could work out the rest of 
the debt.” 

“ Well, Beri’y, I feel mighty sorry for poor 
Lias, and I’d be mighty glad to keep him; but 
I’ve bin a-wantin’ to give you some schulin’, and 
then I don’t like goin’ in debt; and then I don’t 
know whether it’s right to buy a nigger, for our 
discipline says it is agin our rules to buy and 
sell slaves.” 

“ Well, mammie, I can stay away from schule 
a while longer, and as to the debt, we can pay 
half of it this year, and next year we can pay the- 
rest; and then, mammie, the Society never meant 
we was not to do good by buying a nigger, 
’cause it says in the rules we must do good to 
all men, and we are buyin’ Lias for his good 
and Aunt Mandy’s. I tell you what I’ll do : I get 
the major to buy him, and give him our cotton, 
and then we’ll pay him, and ef we never do it, 
he’s got Lias, and we’ve jest lost our money and 
our work.” 

“ WeU, Berry, you can have your way.” 


166 


BERRT^S TRIUMPH. 


Berry rose bright and early, and rode to the 
major. The major has not appeared to us often, 
but he met Berry nearly every week, and the 
more he saw of the boy the better he liked him, 
and when Berry told him what he wished, he 
said at once : 

“Well, my young man, you must have your 
way. I told Lias I couldn’t buy any more nig¬ 
gers, but I reckon I’ll have to buy him for you; 
and I’ll take the bill of sale, and if you can’t pay 
for him I’ll pay you back your money and keep 
the nigger. I’ve ginned your cotton, and I’ll 
ship it to Augusta and get your groceries, and 
credit your note with the amount it brings. So 
you can teU Lias to be easy. He will not go to 
Natchez, unless he steals something, or takes an¬ 
other wife, and then off he goes to the first spec¬ 
ulator.” 

So Berry bought a slave. 


CHAPTER XYIII. 


V 

THE Wn)OW WOOD HEARS SOME UNEXPECTED 
NEWS. 

GIBSON, the Natchez heir, was a 
good man, and was not unwilling 
to seU Lias at a moderate price, and 
so the major paid him the four 
hundred dollars and took Berry’s note for the 
amount. He said that he wanted Berry’s note, 
and not his mother’s, because Berry made the 
trade, and Lias, happy in the new ownership, 
gave himself with new zeal to work on the farm. 

Berry had given up all expectation of going 
to school, and cheerfully accepted the situation. 
When the widow’s cotton was sold and the need¬ 
ful groceries bought there was two hundred 
dollars’ clear profit to credit on the note, and 
though the major insisted that Berry should go 
to school and he would wait for his money, 








168 


BERRY^8 TRIUMPH. 


Berry as stoutly declared that he would not go 
till the note was paid. The next year’s crop was 
again prepared for. The new ground was taken 
in, the rest of the cane-brake made ready for 
corn. Ten acres were put in wheat, and as many 
in oats ; the winter’s wood was stored away, and 
a crop was pitched which demanded full and 
steady work. Mandy and the children were 
hired again at the same rate, and while Jennie 
and Dick trudged their way to school the faith¬ 
ful Berry went to his work with constant regu¬ 
larity. 

Nor was he, nor had he been, neglectful of his 
church or of his books. He was now a young 
class-leader, and when Brother Grant was not 
present he raised the tunes, and prayed in pub¬ 
lic when he was called on. 

One day about June Thomas Grant rode over 
to the widow’s home', and when he had taken his 
seat, said, somewhat abruptly : 

“ Sister Wood, have you got your grandfath¬ 
er’s family Bible, with the family record, in it?” 

“Yes, Uncle Grant; you know I’m my pappy’s 


UNEXPECTED NEWS, 


169 


only child living, and Tve kept the old book 
mighty keerful. Would you like to see it? ” 

“ Yes, bring it to me.” 

She searched through the old chest, and 
brought out an old-time Bible with a buckskin 
cover over the black leather. 

Mr. Grant looked eagerly for the record and 
his face lit up as he read : 

Thomas Allen was born‘s in Powhatan Co., 
Va., Feb’y 1,1726. 

Mary Johnson was born*^ in New Kent Co. in 
Apl, 1728. 

Thomas Allen was married to Mary Johnson 
in April 24th, 1748, by Parson Smith. 

Mary Allen was born‘s in Jan’y 10, 1749. 

Billy Allen was born‘s Oct. 1,1751. 

Betsy Allen was born‘s Nov. 1, 1753. 

Thomas Allen was born‘s Dec., 1756. 

James Allen was born^ Jan’y 1st, 1758. 

Died. 

Mary Allen died June, 1751, aged 2 year. 

Billy Allen died Dec., 1757, aged 11 year. 


170 


BERRY^S TRIUMPH, 


Mary Allen my wife died in 1783. 

Thomas Allen died in Powhatan, Va., 1786, 
aged 60 year. 

The face of Brother Grant brightened as he 
looked over the record, and he took from his 
pocket a letter, which he read to Mary. 

Richmond, Va., June 1, 1800. 
Thomas Grant, Esq., 

Washington, Wilkes Co., Geo. : 

Sir, —I write to you to see if you can discover 
in your county the heirs of James Allen, Esq., of 
the County of Powhatan, lately deceased. 

Thomas Allen, his father, had two sons, 
Thomas and James. Thomas went to Georgia 
in about 1775, and died there. James remained 
here, and has never married. He had a good 
property, and died without a will. The chil¬ 
dren of Thomas Allen are his heirs if they can 
be discovered. The amount of the estate is 
$5,600, which sum is, by order of the Chancel¬ 
lor, deposited in the Richmond branch of the 


UNEXPECTED NEW8. 


171 


United States Bank. Please make inquiry and 
let me hear from you. 

Besp’y, 

Alex. Hunter, 

Att'y for administrator estate James Allen. 

The widow was at first dumb with astonish¬ 
ment ; then the tears of joy came gushing from 
her eyes as Brother Grant said: 

“Well, Mary, thar will be no trouble in es¬ 
tablishing your claim, and you will be a rich 
widow yet.” 

“ Oh, Uncle Grant, God has been so good to 
me. Since poor Dick died he has been truly a 
husband to the widow, and I want to send for 
Berry and let us have pra’r.” 

The horn sounded, and Berry, astonished to 
hear it at such a time, and a little alarmed, 
threw the plough-gear off of his colt and came 
at a sweeping gallop to the house. He was the 
more alarmed when he saw Brother Grant in the 
house and his mother in tears. 

Rushing in, he said: “ What’s the matter, 
mammie ? Tell me quick—what’s the trouble ? ” 


172 


BERRY’S TRIUMPH. 


Uncle Grant looked at tlie excited boy, and 
said, with a quaint smile : 

“The trouble is, your mother’s uncle has 
left her a little fortune in Virginia, and I am 
afraid you’ll have to quit ploughing and go to 
school.” 

The story was soon told. Uncle Grant had 
no difficulty in establishing the claim of the 
widow to the estate, and the money was placed 
to his credit, and he gave the widow his receipt 
for f5,500, to be paid on demand. 

“ Now, Berry, you shall have an eddication, for 
you’ve fairly arned it,” said the mother. 

“ No, mammie, not quite yet. We’ve got to 
have some more land, and you’ve got to have a 
cook, and we must buy Aunt Mandy, so she 
can’t be sold away from Uncle Lias, so I’ll jest 
work on a while and go to school next year.” 

The major was paid, Mandy and the three 
children were to be bought, and Lias’ younger 
brother was to be kept from going to Natchez 
and the rest of the bequest was left with Thomas 
Grant at good interest. I spoke long time ago 


UNEXPECTED NEWS. 


173 


of Bud Phillips who gave Berry so much troub¬ 
le at his first school. His father’s farm ad¬ 
joined the Widow Wood’s. There were 350 
acres in it, and it was first-class land. Unhap¬ 
pily, Bud’s father was a drunkard; he was a poor 
manager, and got deeply in debt. As the major 
rode by in November he called Berry to the fence 
and gave him a copy of the Augusta Chronicle 
of October 8, 1810. As Berry was reading it he 
read the following notice: 

Wilkes County Sherief’s Sale. 

Will be sold before the Court House door in 
Washington, Wilkes County, on the first Tues¬ 
day in November, the following property, to 
wit: One tract or parcel of land on Little River 
—bounded by the lands of the Widow Wood, 
John Crutchfield, and Thomas Grant; said land, 
originally a head-right of Thomas Clark, now 
levied on as the property of Thomas Evans, to 
satisfy sundry fi. fas., to wit: Ferdinand Phanzy 
vs. Thomas Evans, Meals and Calhoun vs. said 
Evans, and George Walton vs. said Evans ; said 


174 


BERRT^S TRIUMPH. 


tract or parcel of land containing 350 acres, 
more or less. 

“ Mammie,” said Berry, that’s the land we 
want, and I’m going, if you say so, to get Uncle 
Grant to bid it in for us.” 

No one knew of the bequest. The widow 
dressed as plain as ever, and so did Berry, and 
worked as hard. Only Brother Bussell was a 
little taken back when the widow handed him a 
ten-dollar gold piece as a present, and told him 
that was poor pay for mighty good preaching. 
In those days, when the people who loved the 
preacher felt that the best service they could do 
him was to keep him poor, this gift was rather 
princely. 

The sale day came off! Mandy and her chil¬ 
dren were to be sold, and, as we have said, they 
were bought for $1,000 for the Widow Wood ; 
and when the land was sold, and it was bought 
by Thomas Grant for the Widow Wood for 
$2,100, great was the astonishment of the neigh¬ 
bors, all except the major and Brother Grant, 


UNEXPECTED NEWS. 


175 


who knew of the God-send, as the widow called 
it. 

“ Now I reckon the widder 1 git a new bonnet 
and quit warring that old sunshade, and I hope 
Berry 1 git somethin* beside that old coon-skin 
cap,” said Mary Snifles, who was a trifle jealous. 

Uncle Marks and Aunt Polly came to Wilkes 
to eat a Christmas turkey with the widow and 
Uncle Grant, and the major and his wife came 
over to join them; and when, after dinner, the 
good old people had smoked their long-stemmed 
pipes, and the company were going away, the 
widow brought out the old family Bible which 
had brought such good fortune, and said: “ Now, 
Uncle Marks, read us a chapter and let us have 
pra’r, and let the good Lord hear what he 
knows—how thankful our poor hearts are.” And 
they sung “How Firm a Foundation.*’ He prayed 
with his old-time fervor, and when they rose 
from their knees the major’s eyes were wet with 
tears. Lias and Mingo were not forgotten, and 
there was a happy time in Lias* cabin that day. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


BERRY GOES TO SCHOOL AND ISIAKES UP FOR 
LOST TIME. 



ERRY WOOD would have been called 
a Georgia Cracker in this day, and 
so he was just such a Cracker as 
many of our grandfathers were. I 
have been not a little amused and somewhat 
vexed at what I have read and heard of the 
Georgia Cracker from those who never knew 
him ; but I have solaced myself by the thought 
that the easiest thing to do is to ridicule people 
you never saw, and whom you do not like any 
too well. Berry had never had a suit of store 
clothes in his life. His mother had cut and 
made all his garments, and he never dreamed 
that they were not well done. They were com¬ 
fortable enough, and that was enough for him. 
He did not think it was more than needful to 






BERRY GOES TO SCHOOL. 


177 


keep his clothing clean and behave himself well, 
to be respected and respectable. His Sunday 
suit was now to be used for his school suit, and 
he must wear it to the Academy at Washington, 
where Parson Simpson, the Presbyterian pastor, 
was teaching a houseful of boys and girls. 

It must be acknowledged that Berry was rather 
poorly educated. A boy ten years of age in one 
of our graded schools knows much more of books 
than Berry knew at eighteen, and what made it 
a little worse. Berry was well grown, and while 
but a boy, was a young man in size. Add to this 
that he was very timid and awkward, and that he 
blushed very deeply when he was addressed by 
strangers. 

The morning he started to Washington to 
school the widow did her best to fit him to 
make a good appearance. He had on a coat of 
blue jeans. It was rather short in the waist, 
and the sleeves were not quite long enough, and 
his other articles of apparel were very much of 
the same order. 

So when he came into the school-room that 
12 


178 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


Monday morning the little town boys and girls 
were much amused by his appearance, and an 
audible titter went over the house. Mr. Simp¬ 
son was a Scotchman, and his dialect was unmis¬ 
takable. He had rather a stern look, but his 
heart was full of kindness. He said as Berry 
came in : “So this is Francis Asbury Wood, ees 
it ? Weel, Francis, what have ye learned at the 
schools to which ye ha* gang heetherto ? ” 

The old man was dressed in deep black, with 
knee-breeches and a long vest, and an old-time 
straight-breasted coat, and had a long cue hang¬ 
ing down his back. His eyes were of piercing 
gray, and his hair undoubtedly red and coarse. 
Berry was embarrassed, and he stammered out: 

“ I don’t know nothing much. I hain’t bin to 
schule but one year, and I am afeared I’ve for¬ 
got most I lamed there ; but I kin read purty 
well, and write my name, and I kin cipher in in¬ 
trust and rule of three.” 

“Weel, weel, I am glad ye don’t preteend to 
know naught that ye don’t know ; so I will put 
ye in the grammar class and let ye review 
areethmetic, and ye can join in with the big spell- 


BERRY OOES TO SCHOOL. 


179 


ers and tak your place with the first geography. 
As ye have not'got the books, I will give ye 
a copy, and ye can spend the morning at your 
copy-book.” 

It was somewhat mortifying to Berry that he 
was so far behind, and when he stood up in the 
class with little Nathan Barnett, not ten years 
of age, he felt the contrast; but he had come 
to school to learn, and learn he would. 

The Friday afternoons were for declamation, 
and the boys did their best, for the girls were 
looking on; and Mollie Crutchfield was there, 
and Berry had not forgotten her. The first week 
Berry was excused, but the second he was called 
out. 

He awkwardly went toward the desk and 
handed the book to the teacher. It was the old 
Columbian Orator, and Bury had learned the 
speech of John Adams—“ Sink or swim, live or 
die, survive or perish, I give my heart and my 
hand to this measure.” He rose to speak, but 
the very room seemed to swim before his eyes, 
and he stammered out: ‘‘ Sink or die, swim or 
perish, I give—I give—I give-I forget 


180 


BEURT^S TRIUMPH. 


what’s next,” and down he sat. The boys 
laughed loudly, and the girls joined them, and 
even Mr. Simpson’s grave face relaxed. Poor 
Berry ! how his face burned ! And as school was 
dismissed he heard Cora Brighton say : 

“Did you ever laugh so much as you did at 
our Cracker boy ? Ain’t he a rich one ? ” 

“I don’t care what you say, Cora Brighton, 
Berry Wood is as good as any of your brothers. 
He ain’t no Cracker—he’s the best boy in Wilkes 
County.” 

“ Heigho ! Mollie Crutchfield, you must be in 
love with him. Do you love him for his beauty, 
his style, or his speaking ? ” 

“ I do like him, and I ain’t ashamed of him 
either, for I know he’s the best boy in Georgia.” 
Berry’s wounded heart received its balm. 
Berry soon got fairly to his work, and he soon 
found himself hampered by his classes. He one 
day came to his teacher and said to him tim¬ 
idly: “ Mr. Simpson, would you mind putting me 
in a grammar class by myself ? ” 

“Why, Francis Asbury, cannot ye kep up 
with the leetle chaps in your class ?” 


BERRY OOE8 TO SCHOOL, 


181 


‘‘Well, no, Mr. Simpson, not exactly that; I 
can keep up with them, but I would like to do 
more in a lesson than you ask them to do.” 

“ Ah, weel, week I niver let a mon complain 
of having too leetle to do, so ye can recite to- 
moiTow by yoursel.” 

The next day Berry went up to recite his gram¬ 
mar. The class had reached the verb, and Mr. 
Simpson had given them the indicative mood of 
the active verb. Berry answered all the ques¬ 
tions Mr. Simpson asked him. Now he said the 
subjunctive, and on he went. Now the passive 
voice, and now the irregular verb, and so on, till 
the whole verb was rendered. 

The participle, the adverb, the conjunction, 
were each of them recited, and the tired teacher 
said, somewhat testily : “ Weel, Francis Asbury, 
if ye have gone over the whole grammar ye must 
tak a leetle longer to recite it.” 

Mr. Simpson was a little annoyed that he had 
so misunderstood his awkward pupil, but he soon 
overcame his annoyance, and gave Berry loose 
rein. How the boy did study, and how he did 
advance! But he still wore the same old suik 


182 


BERRY^S TRIUMPH. 


and still was the same retiring, timid boy. One 
day the major said to him : “ Look here, my 
young Methodist, you must get you some new 
clothes. Dress and address make the gentle¬ 
man, and I am tired of my neighbor being 
called the smart Cracker.” 

Berry smiled pleasantly and said: ** Well, ma¬ 
jor, you know mammie made my clothes, and she 
has done all she could, and I don’t want to make 
her feel bad by showing I am ashamed of her or 
her work; but she told me she wanted me to go 
to the tailor and get a new suit made for our 
examination, and I am going to do it.” 

So Berry dropped his old clothes and his old 
dialect, not all at once, but by slow degrees, and 
when the term ended in November there was not 
one in the school outside of the Latin classes 
who led Berry. The next year he pushed his 
studies, and at the end of it Mr. Simpson said : 
“Weel, Francis Asbury, as ye don’t intend to 
study the classics, I can do no more for ye. Ye 
have learned all that this school can give ye of 
the English branches.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

CONCLUSION. 



ERRY lived a long time after the 
events here narrated, but I did not 
begin this story with the purpose of 
telling all about his life, but rather 
to tell how he won the victory over difficulties 
in his boyhood. 

There is an idea—somewhat widespread, too 
—that all boys must be bad. I do not think 
this is true. I do not think all boys are bad. 
I have known more than one good man who was 
good all the way up. He was a good child, a 
good boy, a good man. I have known boys 
who had just such hardships to encounter as 
Berry Wood had, and who won as brave a vic¬ 
tory. It is because I believe this, and want you 
to believe it, that I have told the story of Berry 
Wood’s boyhood. We have gone with him till 
he is quite twenty years old, and we can go but 
little further; but as our story began with a 







184 


BEBRY^S TRIUMPH. 


funeral, I think we ought to end it with a wed¬ 
ding. Two years at Mr. Simpson’s school in such 
a village as Washington had made quite a change 
in Berry. He dropped, as we have said, his Cracker 
dialect. His mother, with her thoughtful eye, saw 
that the clothing she made him was not such as 
other boys wore, and told him to get the tailor to 
make him two suits, one of homespun for every 
day, and the other of good broadcloth for Sun¬ 
day. So when Berry, dressed in the simple garb 
of a Georgia gentleman, stood up to make his 
speech at the exhibition, more than Mollie 
Crutchfield said he was a fine specimen of man¬ 
hood. He would wear no clothes but those his 
mother made when he was at home, for none, 
he said, fitted him so well; “ but Berry said so,” 
added his mother, “ ’cause he didn’t want to hurt 
his mammie’s feelings.” 

He always called her mammie. He never tried 
to correct her Cracker dialect nor her grammar. 
He had too much sense to underrate people be¬ 
cause their language was not according to the 
best standard, for if he did not know it, some of 
us do, that the verj' pronunciation of his moth- 


CONCLUSION. 


185 


er, and the very words she used, were some of 
them very good English in her grandfather’s day. 
Berry did correct Httle Jennie and Dick, for he 
said he did not want them, in talking and dress-- 
ing, to be unlike the people they associated with. 

Berry had ceased to attend school in Washing¬ 
ton. His two years there had been years of hard 
study. He had made remarkable progress. He 
had gone through his arithmetic and his survey¬ 
ing ; through old Bindley Murray’s Grammar 
and Blair’s Lectures ; could write well and read 
well, and had dropped his provincialisms, as Mr. 
Simpson called his Cracker language. He said 
to his mother: 

“Mammie, I’ve done with school. I don’t 
know much, but I know as much as I can learn 
at school. I study the languages, and I don’t 
want to be a smatterer. I intend to send Dick 
to Franklin College, and Jennie to Salem; but 
I’m going to work hard and try to make some¬ 
thing for you and the little ones.” 

The land was good; Lias and his brother and 
his children made, with Mandy’s occasional help, 
with Berry all the time and Dick some of the 


186 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


time, about eight good farm-bands; and as the 
good Lord gave good seasons, the crops were 
good and brought good prices, and so the family 
grew more and more easy in their circumstances 
every year. There was a fine mill site on the 
creek, and Berry built a good mill, and had a 
wool-carder and a saw-mill; they all paid good 
profits, and Berry was soon recognized as one of ^ 
the leading men of the county. He did not allow 
his business zeal to interfere with his religious 
earnestness. He was made a circuit steward, and 
was the class-leader of the negro class, for he 
W’ould not give them up, and they would not give 
him up. One Sunday he missed the old gray head 
of Mingo, and said to Tom, his fellow-servant: 

“ Where is Mingo, Tom ? ” 

“Mass’ Berry, Mingo is powerful sick. He 
was tuk with a misery in he side, and him 
say tell Pick him must come and see old Mingo, 
he no stay here for long. Mingo luk for ’im.” 

“I’ll go, Tom. Lias, tell mammie I’ll not be 
home to-day, and maybe not to-night.” 

They went to the major, who was very glad to 
see his young neighbor, and after they had 


CONCLUSION. 


187 


dined the major and his wife and Berry went 
down to see the good old man. 

Mingo was right. He was near the end of 
his long journey. He was free from pain, and 
his heart was full of peace. 

“ Mass’ Pick ’e come, me know ’e come ; old 
Mingo most home. I bin tink ob de time when 
’e little boy. Me tel ’e me daddy in Goulah- 
land was king. Hem Guinea nigger kill ’im ; 
but. Pick, my heavenly fader is a king—my 
Massa Jesus is a king, and you read in de Buk 
I am a king ; I go for git my crown. 

“ Mass’ Gabe, we be boys togedder. You lov 
me lik brudder—I pray for you eber’ day for 
forty year. I go home, I no forgit you. I pray 
for you over dar. Miss Julia, my good missa, 
we meet up dar. 

“ He Lord bin wid me one long day. He berry 
close now. I hear de angils sing—de singing git- 
tin’ mighty close—I must go—I must go-” 

The old man sunk into a quiet repose. Tow¬ 
ard morning he looked up and said : 

“ The day breaks—de horn blows—I must go,” 
and he was gone. 



188 


BERRT^S TRIUMPH. 


“There is the truest man I ever knew, the 
best friend I ever had,” said the major, as the 
tears flowed down his cheeks. “If I had ever 
doubted that Christ was a Saviour, Mingo’s life 
would have driven my doubts away.” 

There was a great funeral among the negroes, 
and Berry read the burial service of our Church 
over the grave and went home feeling that he 
had one less true friend on earth. 

“Why don’t Berry Wood marry?” was the 
often-put question in Wilkes, and “I really 
can’t guess ” was the answer. The true reason 
was certainly not that he did not love Mollie 
Crutchfield. She had been back from Salem, 
N. C., for some time, where she had finished her 
education. She had been a busy house-keeper 
at home, and with a bright, cheery smile had 
greeted her old school-friend as he came every 
week to see her. Lovers came and lovers went, 
and Mollie was unwon—and yet Berry never of¬ 
fered her his hand. 

He had built his mother a new home and had 
bought her a gig. He had long insisted that 
she should rest; but it was in vain—work she 


CONCLUSION. 


189 


would, work she must. She still dressed as she 
always had done, and was still the same dear, 
sweet old Cracker she had always been. 

One night, as they sat together around the 
hearth, where a bright fire was blazing, she turned 
to him, and walking to his chair, drew his head to 
her breast, and giving him a tender kiss, she said: 

*‘My son, you’ve bin the best son what ever 
lived. Your mammie is getting old, and she 
caan’t be with you long. You ought to git mar¬ 
ried. You’ve been a-loving Mollie Crutchfield a 
long time, and I know she loves you. You hain’t 
courted her ’case you think I am agin your mar¬ 
riage ; but I hain’t. I won’t lose my son—I’ll 
git a darter.” 

Berry had said to himself that until his mother 
said so he would remain single, but now that his 
mother wished it, the long-cherished dream of 
his heart was realized, and Mollie Crutchfield 
called him hers. How he wooed her I can’t tell 
you—partly because I don’t know, partly be¬ 
cause it is none of our business. 

The day of the wedding drew near. The in¬ 
vitations to the wedding were sent verbally. 


190 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


It was literally true that there were no cards. 
The Crutchfield connection was very large, and 
the friends were many, and they were to come 
from all the country about. On Sunday the 
Quarterly Meeting was held at Grant’s, and 
Joseph Tarpley, now a local preacher, was pres¬ 
ent. Berry said to him : 

“Brother Tarpley, you preached my father’s 
funeral sermon, you received me into the Church, 
and now I want you to marry me on Tuesclay 
night to Mollie Crutchfield.” 

“ So, so,” said the old man—“ so, so ! Well, I 
am glad you are going to marry in Society.” 

The afternoon came. Before sundown the 
crowd came flocking from all directions. They 
were most of them on horseback, but a few of 
the most able had gigs and Jersey wagons. 

Little Dick, now a fine fellow of thirteen, rode 
his colt, but Berry took his mother and Jennie 
in the gig. Mary had laid aside her homespun, 
and was neatly dressed in a black bombazine 
dress, without ribbon or ruffle, with her head, 
now well silvered, covered with a neat, plain, 
cap, while little Jennie was going to stand up 


CONCLUSION. 


191 


with the bride. The great crowds were there, 
and the house was theirs. 

The young folks in those days were not long 
about getting married, and by seven o’clock 
Berry, with Mollie on his arm, came in, and 
Brother Tarpley performed the ceremony and 
gave the bride his fatherly kiss; the next lip 
that touched hers was Mary Wood’s, and as she 
said “ God bless you, my daughter,” Mollie felt 
it was indeed true that she had another mother- 
heart in which to trust. 

The young folks had a royal time. They 
played Sister Phebe and Fishing for Love, and 
Thimble, and other old-time plays till ten o’clock, 
when all was hushed, that the prayer of Brother 
Tarpley might be heard. 

How was the bride dressed? Well, really, I 
don’t know. I did not look at her dress—I 
only thought of her sweet face. 

There was an infair at the Widow Wood’s, and 
one at Thomas Grant’s, and one at David Merri- 
wether’s, and one at John Marks’. Uncle Marks 
and Aunt Polly came to the wedding, and in¬ 
sisted on a visit. 


m 


BERRY'S TRIUMPH. 


Beriy took his bride in his gig, and they rode 
to the Quarter. “ There,” said he, “in that cabin, 
my father died, and there I promised to do three 
things: never to do a mean thing, never to tell 
a lie, and to be good to mammie and meet him 
in heaven.” 

“All the world knows, my dear Berry,” she 
said, “how well you have kept a part of this 
promise, and if you fail in the other it shall not 
be my fault.” 

Mary Wood lived to have her grandchildren 
on her knee, to see Dick a preacher and Jennie 
happily married to Daniel Grant, and then 
sweetly, calmly, she fell asleep. 

As Berry stood by her, and they thought she 
had gone, she suddenly looked up, her face 
beaming with new light. “Dick,” she said, 
“ they are all safe—I come,” and the light lin¬ 
gered on the saintly face though the breath had 
fled. 


FINIS. 



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